


Forgotten Magic

by Luana Araceli (Luana_Araceli)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Mages, Magic, Original Characters - Freeform, Original Story - Freeform, Rune Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 19:41:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11835693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luana_Araceli/pseuds/Luana%20Araceli





	1. Prologue

My name is Ryan Shade.

You may have heard of me. I was committed to the psychiatric hospital last year because I was supposedly delusional.

But what I can see—what I can  _ do— _ is not a delusion. At least, not in the way I’ve come to understand it. From what I’ve gathered, it’s a kind of magic that is unique to me.

See, magic, when it occurs, forms in a way unique to its user. Some mages use color. Others use cards or other divining tools that are just parlor tricks in ungifted hands. Still others use one of the elements. If you can think of a thing, someone, somewhere, draws magic from it. There are endless possibilities. I’ve known mages who used paperclips. One of my closest friends is a mage that uses plastic. There is no limit to what tangible or intangible object someone with magic will have an affinity for. 

But wait. I’m getting ahead of myself. 

I didn’t always know I was a mage or how magic works. When magic happened to me, I was, in fact, completely unprepared for it. No one was around to show me the ropes or to teach me how to cope with my world turning upside down. And to top it all off, I was in the middle of my senior year of high school. With my workload from classes, scholarship and college applications, and a part-time job, magic couldn’t have chosen a more inappropriate time to fall into my lap.


	2. Chapter One

 

I force myself to sit up in my seat as Mr.. Miller heads towards my side of the room to turn on the overhead projector and as he goes more in-depth about the use of quadratics, I find myself slowly sinking back down in my chair to the comfortable position I had before he decided to move. I try to focus my eyes on the white-board behind him, but it’s futile. The numbers and mathematical symbols are blurring. I haven’t gotten much sleep in the last couple of days due to the combined stress of a heavy workload and holding a part-time job, so trying to fight sleep in Mr. Miller’s class is like attempting to wrestle an alligator. 

But as my eyes start to close, still semi-focused on the white-board, the plus sign seems to glow a little. I rub my eyes, thinking it’s just a trick of the light. I tilt my head to the left and to the right, seeing if the glow I’m seeing is just a light refracting off of another surface. All that tilting my head to each side tells me is that the crooked plus sign Mr. Miller has drawn looks the same from every angle. To see if it’s truly refracting off of something, I’m going to have to completely turn my back to the teacher and look around the room. That’s not something I’m willing to do, because Mr. Miller is not known for his patience. 

I sigh and settle back into my seat, staring at the glowing plus. It’s a mystery, but it’s probably something that can be explained away by something so obvious as to be absurd. There’s no use getting worked up over it. 

But now that I’ve seen it, there’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep. 

Mr. Miller finally reaches the end of his lecture and gives us our homework assignment. I open my textbook to the page he indicates and start working on the problems, trying to put the glowing plus out of my mind. 

The assignment is fairly easy and I get to the equations in about five minutes. What I see in the textbook is absolutely not possible. 

All the plus signs are glowing. 

I close the book hastily, getting a few irritated looks from the people around me at the loud sound it makes. I apologize, too freaked out to be embarrassed.  _ It’s just a trick of the light, _ I tell myself and take a deep breath.  _ When I open the book again, they’ll be gone. _

It takes me a couple of minutes to regain my composure. Seeing glowing plus signs is a bit shocking, to put it mildly, so I want to make sure I’m prepared just in case they’re still there. They’re not  _ going _ to be there, but it’s never a bad thing to prepare for the worst. 

I open the book and start flipping pages until I notice that the pluses are glowing on  _ every _ page. It’s not a bright glow—it really  _ does _ look like it could be a trick of the light, if it was just  _ one _ plus. But there’s no way the light can cause all the pluses to glow without illuminating any of the other numbers, letters, or symbols on the page. It’s just the pluses. 

I close the book again, this time softly. I have absolutely no idea what is going on. Pluses don’t just start glowing. Maybe I’m more exhausted than I think I am, so I’m starting to see things that aren’t there. 

Hallucinating due to exhaustion isn’t that abnormal, and it’s an explanation I can accept. Luckily, I don’t have to work at Murk’s today, so I’ll be able to spend the time after I get done with my homework sleeping. Also, since it’s the last class of the day, I’m not going to have to worry about keeping myself awake through any more classes.

Mr. Miller is walking around the room, stopping ever so often to help someone with a problem they don’t quite grasp. He’s slowly making his way over to my side of the room—he started from his desk—and he comes to a rest beside me. He looks down at my textbook, then at me. “Have you completed the assignment?” His disbelief is palpable. 

Shaking my head, I re-open the textbook under his stern gaze and pick up my pencil. Satisfied I’m working again, he moves on. Of course, I’m not really doing any work. Holding my pencil between my index and third finger, I tap it lightly on the desk as I consider the page in front of me. 

The pluses, unsurprisingly, are still glowing. There’s nothing I can do about it, so I decide to ignore them and work on my assignment.

Five minutes before its time for class to end, I’m done with my homework, which is a relief since it lessens the amount of homework I’ll have to do later on. I put the paper I did the assignment on in textbook when a suspicion grips me and I pull it back out. 

Sure enough, all of my handwritten plus signs are glowing.

The book and the white-board I could write off, simply dismiss them as hallucinations produced by a tired mind, but this. This I can’t ignore. 

I  _ wrote _ this. 

I realize I’m holding the paper up in the air and hastily put it away before anyone notices and comments on my behavior. 

The bell rings to dismiss us and I gather my books and head to my locker. The hall is thick with students and I am careful not to jostle them as I pass. Being a senior may give me the right to stride through the hall and knock people out of my way, but I’m not that much of a jerk. Seniors normally aren’t. Sophomores, on the other hand, are a different story. 

They’re so caught up in not being freshmen anymore that they tend to pick on the new freshmen the most. Sophomores are the bullies, not seniors. Whoever said seniors had an over-inflated sense of entitlement never dealt with sophomore bullies their freshman year. Or they simply assumed their bullies were seniors. Either way, people have it backwards. 

I manage, finally, to get to my locker without jostling or being jostled (which is more of a challenge, frankly) to find Cassie leaning against the wall next to my locker. I twist the combination 23-44-29 and stick my math book inside. 

“Hey,” Cassie says. 

“Hey.” I rummage through a pile of books that threatens to topple over if I put anything else on top of it and pull out my English and History textbooks. 

“You should really clean that out.” 

“Probably.” 

“Tim texted me earlier.”

“What did he want?” 

“He wanted me to ask you if you could take the evening shift tonight. Tony called out again.” 

“That guy needs to get his act together.” I close my locker a little too violently. It bangs shut but no one pays attention. A little locker abuse is nothing new.

“He’s going through a tough time right now, Ryan. Don’t be so insensitive.” 

“He’s been going through a tough time for the past two years. I’m not being insensitive, I’m being realistic.” 

“Is that a no?” 

I sigh and think wistfully of the sleep I’m going to be sacrificing for this. “You know me better than that.” I always help out when Tim is short-handed. It’s why he keeps me on the payroll.

“You sure? You don’t look so hot.” Cassie reaches up and touches the back of her hand to my forehead. 

“I’m not sick, Cas,” I say, grabbing her hand and moving it away. 

She doesn’t resist. “Ryan, I’m worried about you. You’re running yourself into the ground.” 

I shrug. “I can’t shirk, Cassie. It’s just not in me.” 

“I know. Sometimes I wish it were.” 

The light catches her necklace and draws my eyes. It’s a family heirloom, or so she’s told me. I think it’s great that she has good enough relationships with her parents that they allow her to wear a necklace that’s been in her family for nearly two hundred years to high school every day. I just wish, considering the way the day's been going, that it wasn’t a  _ cross _ necklace.

Unlike the plus signs in my math class, the cross itself doesn’t glow. Instead, there’s a very faint outline that seems to shimmer, fade, shimmer, fade. I don’t know what it means, but I’m starting to understand that what I’m seeing isn’t just some sort of half-baked hallucination. Either that or my mind is exceptionally good at playing tricks on me. 

“On the other hand,” I say, turning back to Cassie, “maybe you should tell Tim that I need to sit this one out.”

“What happened in the last two minutes to change your mind?” 

“I just reconsidered what you said.” 

“Don’t lie to me, Ryan. I know you. You never say one thing then do another. Something’s going on.” 

“Maybe.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing. At least, I hope it’s nothing.” 

She glares at me. “This is  _ me _ we’re talking about here. Whatever it is that has you so worked up, you can tell me about it. I’m not going to freak out.”

I sigh.

“Unless you’re seeing another girl. Is that it?” 

I stare at her blankly. The words don’t even register properly.

She grins un-repentantly. “You didn’t really think I thought that, did you?” 

“I don’t know. You’re hard to read.” 

“Like I’d suspect  _ you _ of cheating. You couldn’t lie to someone if your life depended on it.” 

It’s not a good thing to know you’re so easy to read. I should really teach her how to talk to people. “Whatever. I’m going home.”

“To do what?” 

“Sleep!” 

“With whom?” 

I scowl and walk away, not in the mood to deal with her teasing.

She catches up with me quickly. “Seriously, Ryan. What’s going on?” 

“I think it’s just sleep deprivation.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

“I’m seeing glowing pluses and crosses.” 

“Like glow sticks?” 

“No.” 

“Like headlights?” 

“No.” 

“Then what is the glowing like?” 

I sigh. She won’t drop this until I tell her. Besides, she’s into all kinds of weird things. Maybe she’ll be able to tell me what is going on and then the glowing will stop and I can get on with my life. Yeah. Right. “It’s like the glare you get off a watch when the sun hits it the wrong way but there’s no reflective surface to cause the glowing. That’s when I see them on paper.” 

“What’s it like with real ones?” she asks, reaching up to finger her necklace. 

“Pluses on paper are still real,” I point out. 

She ignores this. 

“The light around your cross sort of shimmers and fades off and on.”

“Cool. Wish I could see it.” 

“Don’t wish that.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because it’s not normal.” 

“Who cares about normal? It’s cool.” 

“Whatever. I’m going home now.” 

By this time, we’ve reached my car. She slides into the passenger seat without asking and I get into the driver’s seat. “What are you doing?” I ask, starting the ignition.

“You’re taking me home.” 

“I never agreed to that.” 

“You agreed to it when you asked me to dinner last year.” 

“Just because we’re dating does not mean you’re entitled to rides from me whenever and wherever you want.” 

“Yes it does.” 

I put the car in gear. Arguing with her is like talking to a wall, but at least walls listen quietly. Cassie settles back comfortably and I drive in silence to her house. Before she gets out of the car, she turns to me and says, “Crosses mean things, you know.” 

“I know. They’re the symbol of the sacrifice Jesus made.” 

“No. Yes, but that’s not what I meant. You’re not religious anyway.” 

“Then what did you mean?” 

“Pluses and crosses are both glowing because they have the same general shape.” 

“What’s your point?” 

“Think about it, Ryan. What does “plus” mean?” 

I blink, processing the question as she grabs her school bag. 

“Pick me up tomorrow.”

“No.” 

“Don’t make me call your mom.” 

“I can’t believe you’d sink that low for a ride to school.” 

Cassie grins. “You’ll never know what a girl will do to not have to walk.” 

An uneasy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. I hate when she talks like that. “I’ll pick you up at seven.” 

She leans over the seat and kisses me good-bye. After she closes the door, I put the car into gear and head home, hoping that sleep will cure me of the weird things I’ve been seeing.

I pull into my driveway and shut off the ignition. Mom’s car is here; Dad’s is not. Great. That means I’m going to have to listen to another spiel about how Dad is working himself to death and not spending enough time with the family. Personally, I don’t mind that he’s not home except that I hate listening to Mom’s ranting. Dad and I have a unique relationship. He asks me for nothing, I ask him for nothing, and we maintain civility around one another in the house. If he wasn’t my father, I’d never associate with him. He’s the type of guy that is the kind of guy I’d get into a bar fight with just to prove I could win. It’s not that I don’t respect him or what he’s done for us, but he is completely oblivious to the world around him, which is, of course, the reason Mom rants to me instead of him. At least she knows I’ll listen. 

When I first walk into the house, I’m surprised that Mom is nowhere to be found. That means she’s napping or in the garden. Either way, I’m home free. No ranting session tonight. I head up the stairs to my room after grabbing a soda. I’m going to need the caffeine to concentrate on my schoolwork. 

Exactly halfway up the stairs—on step seventeen (I count them because I  _ have _ to)—I get what Cassie was trying to tell me. A plus is the symbol of addition. It’s obvious, which makes me feel stupid, but at least I understand now. 

Cassie has always really been into weird things, despite her Christian upbringing. Psychics, tarot cards, magic…all the stuff her own religion forbids…she loves it. So when she asked “what does “plus” mean?” what she was really saying was, “plus means addition which means maybe the glowing pluses are a sign that you need something in your life.” She’s tricky like that. I swear I will never understand girls. 

So instead of doing my homework like the barely-scraping-by B student I am, I sit at my desk and think about what I could possibly  _ need _ in my life. My thoughts immediately turn to my parents. 

I said already that my dad is the kind of guy that if I knew him as a guy my age I’d beat him to a pulp just to prove I could. That sort of indicates a lack in communication in our relationship, but if anything we communicate too well. We just don’t agree on anything. So I don’t need a better relationship with my father—what I need from my father is for him to be a different person. That’s not going to happen because it isn’t possible. 

My relationship with my mother is better, though the communication is at the same level. But that’s just because my mom understands where I’m coming from and agrees with most of what I say. It’s pretty much impossible to have a better relationship with her. I do wish she’d stop complaining to me about my father because he always asks me what she’s ranted about and I tell him because they both expect me to, but it makes me feel caught in the middle. That’s mostly because I am caught in the middle, but that’s life. 

Cassie is, in a word, amazing. I met her at Murk’s, the place I work part-time. She was the waitress that replaced Rena, a woman who got deported back to Mexico because she wasn’t careful enough. Others were more careless than Rena, so it was mostly just bad luck. Everyone missed her, though, because she was funny and could deal with even the meanest customers. People used to flock to Murk’s because of Rena. 

I remember the first night I met Cassie, mostly because I was mad that Tim replaced Rena so quickly. Cassie came in and dealt with all the angry employees, including me, just as efficiently as Rena ever had. She won me over in two minutes and never had to speak. Her beauty took my breath away. I’d have forgiven her anything. Asking her out seemed the next best thing. 

The rest of the guys were jealous for awhile because I was the first one to make a move. I’m like that, though. If I see something I want, I go for it. It doesn’t matter if it’s a person or a thing. If it doesn’t work out, oh well. But I’m not one to squander opportunity. I rather prefer to  _ make _ opportunities when I can get away with it. 

Before that first night was through, I’d already gotten her to agree to a ride home from me. It wasn’t that hard. She didn’t have a car, I did. I just told her that if she wanted a ride I’d wait around until her shift was over and take her home, but if she thought it was too creepy an offer from a guy she’d just met, I’d leave and let her walk. 

Needless to say, she accepted the offer instantly. A girl walking on the streets at night is never a good idea in this town—or any town, for that matter—especially a girl as attractive as Cassie. 

By the time I dropped her off that first night, I’d gently wrung enough information from her to know she was a great potential girlfriend and I let her know so. Like she said earlier, I’m horrible at lying, so I just tell it like it is. It makes life easier. She agreed to a dinner date, which went splendidly and lead to us becoming more than just friends. 

Anyway. I’m getting off track here. I am trying to consider what it is that I need in my life, not what I already have. I could use a break from all the homework and the insane amount of scholarship and college applications that keeps piling up. But that wouldn’t be beneficial. A lack of those would be a loss in all the ways that matter. 

I tick the list off in my head. Dad. Check. Mom. Check. Cassie. Check. Job. Check. Schoolwork and applications. Check. Nothing is missing, except maybe a sport to play on top of everything else. I cringe at the thought. Not because I hate sports, because I love them, but because a sport would make it even  _ more _ impossible for me to get any sleep. Not that I’m getting much now. Maybe that’s what all these glowing pluses are telling me. I need more sleep. 

That idea I pretty much dismiss out of hand. Seeing a sign that I need more sleep is ridiculous because I already know I need more sleep. Aren’t signs supposed to be about things you don’t know about?

Shaking my head, I turn my full attention to my English homework. I have to write an essay, the first draft of which is due tomorrow, and then I have to read and answer what feels like a hundred history questions but is in reality only ten. History is my least favorite subject. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll fall asleep while I’m reading. 

Then again, if I fall asleep while I’m doing my homework, my grades will slip. I think I’ll just slip downstairs when I get to the history section and grab another soda. I need to retain my B average so I can get into a decent college. That’ll be impossible if I fall asleep because when I fall asleep tonight I won’t wake up again until my alarm goes off in the morning. And since Cassie requires me to act as her personal chauffeur, answering the history questions in the morning before class is completely un-doable. 

Halfway through my history homework, my cell phone starts vibrating. I ignore it. There are only three questions left before I can sleep. It vibrates again. It’s just a text message. It can’t be important. I ignore it again. Maybe the person will get the message I don’t want to be bothered and will stop texting me. No such luck, of course. I finish the three questions because even if I’m being annoyed to death by the vibrating phone, nothing is more important than getting my homework done. My parents expect me to get into a good college and I can’t let them down. I can’t let  _ myself _ down. I refuse to be stuck in this house and forced to go to the local community college. 

My cell phone vibrates off and on, but I’m determined to ignore it and head to the bathroom to take a shower, after which I will be asleep. More than anything anyone can be texting to tell me right now, I need sleep. Unless the text is about someone’s death, but people don’t usually text about death. Our society is at least still civilized enough that people pick up phones and actually  _ talk _ to others when deaths are involved. Or lives, for that matter. 

I try, and fail, to go to sleep. You’d think it’d be easy, considering how exhausted I am, even though it is only six. But the phone won’t stop going off and I’m getting annoyed. No one can sleep when they’re irritated. So I stomp across the room to my desk where my cell phone is dancing to its own vibrations and threatening to fall off the edge. I pick it up and flip it open.  _ You have twenty-five unread text messages. _

I open the first one.  _ Ryan, is there anyway you can come help me out? We’re slammed.  _

The next one:  _ Ryan, it’d be really helpful if you came and helped out. Michael also didn’t show up and we’re still packed.  _

#3 _ I’d be really grateful for your help. _

#4 _ Please come help. _

#5 _ Even if it’s only for an hour or two, it’d be better than nothing. _

I skip through a few until I find one from Cassie.  _ I know you’re probably sleeping. You looked exhausted. But if you do happen to be awake, could you please come help us out? I’m sure Tim’s already told you… _ it cuts off, as long texts tends to do, and I scroll down to the next one… _ but Michael was a no-call, no-show and there are more people here tonight than I think I’ve ever seen in here. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Love you. _

Groaning, I sit down on the edge of the bed and scroll through the rest of the messages. They’re  _ all _ from Tim and in every one he’s asking me to come help them out. I’m surprised he managed to send me so many text messages without sounding pissed. A bit desperate, yes, but that’s to be expected with the situation they’re facing. Just when I think I’m going to be able to get away with not going (I  _ really _ don’t want to go), my phone rings and I answer without thinking. 

“Ryan, thank god. I’ve been trying to reach you for the last hour.” 

“I was doing homework.” 

“Did you get my texts?” 

“Yeah. I just checked my phone a minute ago.” 

“Oh. Can you come in?” 

“Are you still slammed?” 

“Yes,” Tim says, but what his tone says is  _ would I be asking if we weren’t? _

“Okay. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” 

“How late can you stay?” 

“As long as you need me to. I’m done with my homework.” 

“Great. I’ll see you in ten.” 

He hangs up and I stare at the phone in my hand feeling like an idiot. Why do I put myself in these situations? It takes less than a minute to find my work uniform and throw it on. I’m just glad it’s clean. There have been times when Tim called me into work and I hadn’t had a chance to do laundry in three days. Unlike my other friends, my mom stopped doing my laundry by the time I was old enough to do it myself. She said something about learning responsibility and good hygiene when I asked her why I had to do it. 

I make it to Murk’s in five minutes and walk into a restaurant I’ve never seen. Don’t get me wrong—the walls are familiar and all the employees I recognize instantly. But I’ve never seen Murk’s this busy. I make my way slowly to the kitchen, careful not to bump into any of the customers. From what I can tell, Tim’s had John bring out extra tables and chairs to accommodate the sudden jump in clientele. 

Tim looks up from the grill as I walk in. “Thank God you’re here,” he yells and points to the list of tickets. I’m one of three night cooks that Tim employs and the other two have either called out or quit. He has to fill in for one of them, which is okay but not the greatest because Tim is only a mediocre cook. He’s one of those people who are wonderful managers but absolutely horrible at the tasks he assigns others to do. 

I take a look at the tickets as I wash my hands. Not one of them is a complicated order, which is amazing considering the throng of people waiting for their food, and I start preparing the meals. After two years of cooking the same food day in and day out, I can produce it nearly as fast as it’s ordered. Even this crowd doesn’t daunt me. In fact, I feel a little thrill at the challenge it presents because it allows me to completely forget about the glowing symbols that have haunted me throughout the day. 

There’s not a lot of verbal communication in Murk’s kitchen. When I’m cooking, I’m in charge. Everyone takes their cues from me and they know I don’t tolerate squabbles. A kitchen is the wrong place to start a fight. There are just too many injuries waiting to happen. At the same time, it’s much too loud for any type of verbal communication. So we figured out a long time ago how to communicate with our own unique form of sign language. It wouldn’t make sense to anyone who uses true sign language, but it works well for us. 

Marie hands me a bag of broccoli and I stare at her for a long moment. 

She shrugs her shoulders.  _ What? _

I point to the frostbite on the broccoli and shake my head.  _ I can’t cook this _ . If there was only a small part of it that was frostbitten, I could break it off and use the rest, but it’s frostbitten all the way through. If I won’t eat it, I won’t serve it. 

Marie takes the broccoli from my hand and tosses it in waste and disappears. She comes back a minute later with a bag of broccoli that has no frostbite. 

I give her my best confused look. 

Somehow, she understands what I’m asking and she points to the broccoli she just threw away and back to the box bin. Ah, last bag. I nod and turn back to the stove. Marie disappears to grab something else, but I’m not concerned with that. All I want to do is get through this day. Tomorrow is sure to be better. 

About four hours later, at ten, the lobby is completely empty. All the customers have gone home satisfied—if we get a complaint, I’m always the first to know. No one ever sends food back on my shift. Maybe that’s the reason Tim keeps me around. I still think it’s because he knows I’ll always come in. It could be a combination of the two, I guess. 

Tim motions to me to follow him outside to the lobby where we can talk. I wipe my hands and beckon Chris over. He’s slowly been learning how to cook because Tony has proven time and time again that he can’t be relied on and Chris caught my eye one day when he was prepping vegetables. That may not seem important, but he was prepping them very efficiently so I pulled him aside and asked him if he wanted to learn to cook. Tim approved it, of course.

Chris tilts his head to the side.  _ What? _

I motion to the stove in front of me and point to him.  _ It’s all yours. _

He shakes his head no more out of nervousness than refusal. I point to the door where Tim is waiting. Chris sighs and nods. He’ll take over because he can’t very well refuse if the boss needs to talk to me. 

I walk over to Tim and we both walk out into the lobby. 

“Thanks for coming in,” he says. 

“No problem.” 

“I’m going to pay you time and a half for the hours today.” 

“Thanks!” 

“I haven’t seen that many people in here since Rena left.”  
“It’s good we’re getting busy again.” 

“Yeah. We just need people who are reliable.” 

“Why don’t you fire him?” 

“Who?” 

“Tony.” 

“It wouldn’t be right.” 

“He’s been doing this for two years.” 

“Maybe, but that’s what makes Murk’s special. We’re family. I don’t fire someone just because they’re having trouble adjusting.” 

“Two years isn’t adjusting.” 

“I’m the only employer around here who offers job security. Even if I wanted to fire him, I have to wait another year.” 

“No loopholes?” 

“I don’t work like that.” 

“It was just a thought.”

“What do you have against him?” 

“Aside that I have to come in at least three days every week to cover for him?” 

“Aside from that.” 

“Nothing.”

“You’re training Chris, aren’t you?” 

“He’s not ready yet.” 

“I know. But when he is, you won’t have to keep coming in to cover for Tony.” 

“You should just hire a different cook and demote him to dishwasher.” 

“I’d have to dock his wages.” 

“Better than firing him.” 

“I’ll consider it.” 

“You do that.” 

We stand in silence for a few minutes. Tim says, “Thanks again, Ryan. You can go home now.” 

“I’m waiting on Cassie.” 

“She doesn’t get off for another hour.” 

“I know. I’ll work until she does.” 

“Fine with me. Let Chris cook though. He needs the experience.” 

I nod my assent and walk back into the kitchen, knowing a dismissal when I hear one. 

Cassie’s shift ends and I follow her outside. “You don’t have to take me home,” she says. 

“Yes I do.” 

“Tim said earlier he’d give me a lift.” 

I open the passenger side door. “Get in the car.” 

She slides in and buckles her seat-belt. I close the door and walk around to the driver’s side. Cassie twists around so that’s she sitting sideways in the seat as I slid in. “What?” I ask. 

“Did you think about what I said?” 

“About pluses?” 

“What else?” 

“Plus means addition.” 

“Very observant.” 

I sigh. “There’s nothing I need added to my life, Cas. So that doesn’t make sense.” 

She stares at me, eyebrow raised. “Are you sure about that?” 

“I have a good relationship with my parents,” I explain. “You and I aren’t having relationship problems. Working at Murk’s doesn’t suck and if I keep my grades up high enough, I can get into a decent college.”

“Why do you think it has anything to do with any of that?” 

“I don’t. But I can’t think of anything else it could relate to.” 

“Maybe you’re looking at it the wrong way.” 

“How else should I look at it?” 

“The right way.” 

“Cute.” 

She laughs. “Adding to any of those would be a good thing, right?” 

I consider this for a moment. “Mostly.” 

“So maybe the glowing plus isn’t a sign of a good addition.” 

“What?” 

“Just because something additional may be coming into your life doesn’t mean it’s going to be a good thing, you know,” she says. 

“I know what you meant, Cas.”

“Oh. Then why did you ask?” 

“What kind of additions could be negative?” I feel stupid as soon as the question is out of my mouth. There are a million things that could be negative. “Never mind, stupid question.” 

She laughs. “Don’t worry about it, Ryan. You probably just need sleep.” 

“I hope so.” 

Cassie gets out of the car and says a quick good night. I don’t try to linger because I’m exhausted and I need to get home so I can sleep. I’m only going to get about five hours of sleep but it’s better than the three I’ve been getting. Hopefully when I wake up tomorrow the glowing pluses and crosses will just be a bad memory. If not, I have no idea what I’m going to do about them. I can’t afford to go crazy.

 


	3. Chapter Two

I pick Cassie up at seven. She’s wearing form-fitting blue jeans and a tight v-cut green tee-shirt. My eyes are drawn to the v of her shirt but I pull them away before she can say something. I’m not quite ready for her snide remarks this early in the morning. 

“Hey,” she says, setting her purse down in the floorboard before she buckles her seat-belt. I wonder momentarily why she always insists on wearing it—everyone else who rides with me never puts it on—but it’s an inane thought and passes just as quickly as it came. 

I grumble a response. I’m still half-asleep, so if she’s expecting me to be a good conversationalist this early in the morning, then she hasn’t learned much about me over the last couple of years.

“I did a reading last night.” 

I shrug my shoulders and turn my attention to the road. I really don’t care what she did last night—I was too busy sleeping. 

“You’re not interested?” 

Sighing silently, I find the patience from deep inside to deal with her need for conversation. She will feel slighted if I don’t talk to her and wonder what she did to make me angry, despite the fact I’ve explained to her a hundred times that it’s a bad idea to talk to me before eight a.m. “I’m not into that stuff, Cas.” 

“I don’t see why not. It’s fascinating.” 

“It’s a hoax.” 

“How are tarot cards a hoax?” 

“Why do you believe in that stuff?” I ask. I don’t really feel like arguing. 

“Because I had a great-grandma who told fortunes reading them.” 

“I thought your family was Christian.” 

“Only on my Mom’s side.” Her hands have started moving, the way they always do when she gets animated about a topic. “My great-grandma is from my Dad’s side of the family.” 

I suddenly get a flash of insight as to  _ why _ her family doesn’t associate with anyone on her Dad’s side of the family anymore. Conflicting beliefs tend to cause strife and Cassie’s parents—her Mom especially—likes nothing less than they like strife. “I thought your Mom hated your Dad’s side of the family.” 

“She does.” 

“So how did you meet your great-grandma?” 

“It was before my Mom found out that she told fortunes.” 

“That tells me nothing.” 

“I was six. My Dad asked my grandma to watch me and my great-grandma was there. That’s how my Mom found out she told fortunes, by the way.” 

“Oh?” 

“Mom had to come pick me up that day because Dad was really busy at work. So he asked her to pick me up and my Mom walked in on my great-grandma telling my fortune.” 

“How does that prove tarot cards aren’t a hoax?” 

“Because everything my great-grandma told me that day has come true.” 

I’m silent as I digest that. I don’t believe in any of this, of course, but Cassie believes in it and there’s no reason for me to disillusion her. “What did your great-grandma see?” I ask, semi-regretful for the question. It’s an indulgence born from curiosity, but this one indulgence is sure to open up ways for Cassie to introduce more of her weird world to me.

“That’s personal.” 

“That’s never stopped you.” 

“Because it’s never really personal with you.” 

I feel offended. Of course it is. I have just as many secrets as the next person. I try to think of something to say that is an appropriate response when I notice her grinning. Relaxing, I roll my eyes at her. “Ha-ha. Seriously, what did your reading say?” 

“My great-grandma told me that my parents would divorce by the time I was twelve and that I would meet the man of my dreams when I was sixteen. So far, both of things are true.” 

“Your parents are divorced and live in the same house,” I point out. 

“Nothing wrong with forward thinking.”

Shaking my head, the rest of what she’s said catches up with me. “The man of your dreams?” I ask softly, almost afraid to ask for confirmation. 

She nods emphatically. “Why does that surprise you?” 

“I’m not that special.” 

“That’s exactly why you are.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Whatever.” 

“So do you want to know what the reading I did last night said or not?” 

I shake my head. She never lets up on anything once she gets a-hold of it. I swear, she’s worse than a dog that’s forgotten where it’s buried its bone. “Fine,” I say, albeit grudgingly. I’m more than willing to leave what happened yesterday in yesterday. There’s no sense in dragging it along behind me today. 

“You sound thrilled.” 

“I already said I hate that stuff.” 

“And you still haven’t explained why you think it’s a hoax.” 

I stay silent. I refuse to argue with her. It’s pointless and I have better things to think about than how to stay two steps ahead of her in an argument. 

She sighs. “The cards I read last night said the same thing I guessed yesterday.” 

“That something was going to be added to my life?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did it happen to say what, exactly?” 

“No. The cards don’t work like that.” 

“They apparently did for your great-grandma.” 

“She was a special case.” 

“Obviously.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing.” 

Cassie glares at me. “My great-grandma wasn’t crazy. A little weird, maybe, but not crazy. And tarot cards aren’t a hoax.” 

“I’m not arguing with you.” 

“You are arguing by refusing to argue.” 

I shrug. I’m not getting into semantics. “So your cards confirmed what you’d already guessed. Seems to me like it was a waste of time.” 

“The cards are never wrong.” 

“I’m more willing to believe my glowing pluses than your tarot cards.” 

“Same difference.” 

“Not really.” 

“Just because you didn’t see them when I was doing the reading doesn’t mean they don’t work.” 

“No, the fact that they’re tarot cards is what proves that they don’t work.” 

“You’re such a skeptic.” 

“Yes, I am. And that will never change.” 

Cassie grabs her purse and gets out of the car. “I’ll see you after school. Joe said he would find you at lunch, which works for me since Mrs. Baker wanted to talk to me about my art project.” 

“Okay.” I watch her walk away, vaguely wondering if I should have told her I loved her before she disappeared. That’s not really the kind of couple we are, though, so I shrug it off and shut off the car before heading into the school. 

Walking into my history class is like walking into a church. No one says  _ anything _ in Mrs. Taylor’s classroom. She has no tolerance for it. Aside from that, history really is my least favorite subject. Her method of teaching just makes it that much worse. I settle into my seat and wait for the bell to ring that tells her she can start talking. She’s one of those teachers who start as soon as the first bell rings and whose lecture doesn’t end until the changing bell rings. 

I pass up my homework along with the rest of the class and let my mind wander as she begins a monologue about the American Revolution. I’m sure it’s important to know this stuff because I’m as loyal to my country as the next average American, but the past is in the past. What I am interested in is what Joe wants to talk about at lunch. 

Joe is my best friend and he’s very sensitive about his name. It looks like Joe, but it is pronounced Joey. His parents were a little vindictive when they named him that and it causes him no end of irritation. I can’t count on two hands how many fights he’s been in because someone called him the wrong name. 

I’ve known Joe since I was eight and he tried to steal my lunch money. I think I’m the only person that’s ever bested him in a fight, if two eight-year olds wrestling over spare change can really be considering fighting. Somehow that incident led to us being friends and as far as I know I’m the only real friend he has. It’s not that he’s unfriendly…okay, well, that’s a lie. Joe is one of the most unfriendly people I know, but he’s nice enough to me. 

He is constantly getting in trouble for fights and not all of them have to do with his name. Joe is one of those people that refuses to take no for an answer, although he’d never hit a girl. Or at least, I’d like to think he’d never hit a girl. So far I haven’t gotten the chance to find out because he’s never had a girlfriend. He’s got a reputation as one scary motherfucker. There aren’t a whole lot of guys who will mess with him, but because he’s got such a scary reputation, so far there have been absolutely no girls that want anything to do with him. 

I wonder what people think when they see us together, because I’m sure as hell not scared of him. Like I said, he’s my best friend. You can’t be scared of your best friend. But I don’t look like the kind of guy he normally tangles with. I’m skinny to the point I’m almost lanky and I don’t play sports so I’m not bulging with muscles. In a way, it could look like Joe bullies me because I’m so much smaller than he is. From a purely physical perspective, Joe  _ should _ have the upper hand in a fight with me. That makes me idly curious about who  _ would _ win a fight between us. We’re both completely different people now than we were during that fight over spare change nine years ago.

Time seems to have slowed to a crawl during the classes before lunch to the point I fall asleep during political science. Mr. Combs doesn’t care what we do in his class, as long as we complete our assignments and maintain passing grades, so I feel safe enough to take a nap. 

The person who sits next to me in class, whose name I never remember because it starts with an A and I always want to say Aiden or Adrian but that’s never quite it, shakes me awake. “Bell for lunch just rang,” he says. 

“Thanks, A…” I trail off. 

He rolls his eyes. “Andrew. For the millionth time.” But he’s not insulted, just annoyed. 

I stretch as I stand and stop off at my locker to stow my books before lunch. I don’t really feel like dealing with a bulky stack of books when I’m trying to eat. I also grab my lunch-box. My Mom  _ does _ still pack my lunch, even if she won’t do my laundry, because she has a long-standing grudge against cafeteria food. I can’t say I blame her. I’ve only ever eaten it one time because I had no choice—I’d forgotten my lunch at home—and that was one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had.

I make my way to the senior section of the lunchroom and feel a sudden rush of gratitude that our school’s cafeteria is separated into sections designated for each year. It makes the freshmen an easier target, but it gets rid of the clique tables that so many other schools have to make do with. I slide into the seat at my usual table, which is at the back of the room as far away from the three lines into the kitchen as possible, and open my lunch-box. 

Today my Mom packed a turkey wrap, some whole wheat crackers with humus, a pear, and a bottle of water. She doesn’t believe in soda or juice during meals, so I have to make do with the water or spend my hard-earned money on a soda from one of the machines. I have an internal debate with myself, but the urge for caffeine wins out and I pop a dollar into the nearest vending machine. 

I catch Joe’s form from the corner of my eye and turn to watch him work. It never gets old. He always looks like a man on a mission and the people in his way are parting like the red sea. Chuckling to myself, I don’t bother to watch where I’m going and start to make my way back to the table. I know he’s heading for me because Cassie told me so this morning. The two of them tolerate one another because neither one wants to get between me and my friend, or in Joe’s case, between me and my girl. 

I’m so busy thinking about how careful the two of them are with each other that I run smack into Joe. 

He barks out a quick, “Watch where you’re going!” but he isn’t looking at me. 

I wave my hand in front of his face until I’ve gotten his attention. There’s a little less noise than there usually is in the cafeteria, but it’s not gone completely silent. It’s just a tense murmur. 

“What do you want?” he snaps, and finally— _ finally _ —turns to look at me. “Ryan!” 

“In the flesh,” I say, grinning. 

He claps me on the back. “Should’ve known it was you. You’re the only person I know that’s so clumsy.” 

I laugh. “I’m not clumsy.” 

“Sure you’re not.” 

“When’s the last time I ran into you?” 

“Um…” 

“Try when we were eight.” 

He thinks about this for a moment. “You have a point. So she told you I was looking for you, eh?” 

“Cassie always passes on your messages. She’s afraid of what’ll happen if she doesn’t.” 

“I’d never hurt her.” 

“I know that. She knows that. She doesn’t want you to get mad at me because she forgot to tell me something.” 

“Pfft. I’d hurt her sooner than I’d hurt you.” 

My tone hardens. It’s not really a threat, but I don’t like where this conversation might be heading. “That’s not funny.” 

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I was just messing.” 

I sigh. “Sorry, it’s been a hard week.” 

“I can tell—you’re jumping at flies.” 

I tell him about Murk’s, how Tony and Michael are completely unreliable, and complain a little about all my homework and all the applications I have to turn in by the end of week. For someone who is so renowned for his harsh personality, Joe is a remarkably good listener. I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders when I get finished. I don’t mention the glowing pluses and crosses to him because he’s even more skeptical about anything supernatural than I am. 

He grows quiet as I finish and I know something is wrong. 

“What’s going on, Joe?” I ask quietly. 

His refusal to meet my eyes tells me that whatever it is, it’s big. Finally, he sighs, and starts. “Ryan, I think I screwed up.” 

I wait for him to continue. Talking at this point is just going to make him clam up and that’s the last thing I want to do. 

“I got into a fight with my dad last night.” 

“And?” 

“He’s in the hospital. I didn’t mean to get so rough with him!” He says at my raised eyebrow. “He just…he made me angry.” 

“What exactly happened?” 

Joe stares at the table for a long moment. This, whatever it is, has obviously affected him in a bad way. He starts to speak, then stops, like he’s not quite sure how to explain.

I finish my lunch in silence. He’ll tell me when he’s ready. I’m not going to force it out of him, when he’s obviously having such a tough time coming to terms with it.

“Everything was fine until he came home. My mom was washing dishes. Kylie was helping her.” Kylie is his little sister, who he loves more than anyone else in the world. “And Dad came in the house in one of his moods.” Joe’s face darkens. “He just started yelling about how much money my mom owed him and how she needed to be more grateful…it all happened so fast.” 

Joe gets his temper from his dad, so it’s pretty much a given some sort of violence was involved. That’s the biggest difference between them, as far as I can tell. Joe would never hit a woman, not unless his life was in danger. I drink the rest of my soda and stay silent. He’s not looking for sympathy right now; he’s just trying to get the story told. It’s going to kill him if he keeps it bottled up inside. 

“He…he hit my mom…like he always does.” He looks away from me. “That…I could’ve handled that, because the two of them have been like that with each other for as long as I can remember. But he didn’t stop there. He started to hit Kylie. She’s only eight!” Joe crosses his arms over his chest. It almost looks like he’s hugging himself, trying to find some small modicum of comfort in the act. “He’s my dad, Ryan, but she’s just a little girl. I couldn’t… I couldn’t watch her get hurt.”

“So you hit him,” I say, carefully keeping my voice free of emotion. Truthfully, I’m incredibly angry that anyone could ever hurt a child, but Joe doesn’t need confirmation that his actions were justified. If I know Joe, he’s beating himself up over the fact that he hit his dad. Even though the man is a complete asshole, Joe’s always looked up to him, respected him. If anything, my best friend is facing up to the fact that his dad is a scum bag. It’s got to be a fairly rude awakening.

“Yeah,” he says softly, “I hit him.” The fog seems to clear from his head and he focuses on me, more intent than he’s been the rest of the conversation. “I need a place to stay, Ryan.” 

“Why?” I am truly puzzled. If his dad is in the hospital, then there’s no reason he can’t stay at home with his mother and sister. The request makes no sense to me. 

Joe looks down guiltily. “My mom, well…she sort of threw me out.” 

“What?” I’m angry now. Her son tried to  _ protect _ her! Why would she throw him out after that? It seems to me she should be more grateful. 

“She said that she didn’t want Kylie around that kind of violence and that if I’d just stayed out of it, no one would’ve gotten hurt.” 

“What a bitch,” I say, and then catch what I’ve just said. Joe doesn’t take kindly to anyone insulting his mother. Even if I am his best friend, there are limits. I hold my breath, hoping this doesn’t lead to a fight. I  _ really _ don’t want to fight him. 

“I’ll let that slide, since you’re my friend, but that’s my mom you’re talking about.” Joe’s tone is low and dangerous and I suddenly realize that I  _ never _ want to tangle with this guy, even if I do have a potential chance to come out on top in a fight. 

I nod, relieved he’s cutting me slack, and steer the conversation down a different track. “So how long do you need a place to crash?” 

“Just until my dad gets out of the hospital. My mom said she wouldn’t feel safe with me in the house unless he was there to keep me in line.” 

There’s a flaw in that logic, but I don’t point that out to him. His mother is obviously in serious denial she’s involved in an abusive relationship, but I’m not about to say anything against her to Joe any time soon. “How long will that be?” 

“A month or two.” Joe shrugs, like beating his dad to the point he has to stay there a couple months is no big deal. To him, it probably isn’t. And, as I think of Kylie, I realize it’s not a big deal to me either. Actually, I feel a little more than okay about it. Anyone who beats up an eight-year old girl deserves a hospital stint or two.

“All right,” I say, “let me talk to my dad tonight. I’ll text you if he’s cool with it.” 

Joe nods. “Be convincing, Ryan. You’re the only person I know to turn to.” 

That, at least, I know is sincere. I am his only friend because I’m the only one who can handle his crude personality. I’m not really sure how him staying at my house will work out, since neither one of my parents really likes him (they think he’s a thug and they’re not far off the mark), but I’ll pull out all the stops I can think of. After all, he is my best friend. That has to count for something, right?

Lunch ends and my biology class passes quickly since my mind is occupied with how I’m going to get my parents to agree to let Joe spend two months with us. A dozen different scenarios flash through my head and more than half of them are absurd ideas based on telling lies. If there’s one thing I can’t do, it is lie convincingly. I sigh. The only real option I have is just to tell them the truth and go from there. If I can get my parents to see Joe in a sympathetic light, then I might just have a chance of convincing them that it’s a good idea for him to stay with us. 

The bell signaling the ending of third period rings, shaking me out of my thoughts. I gather my books and make my way to Mr. Miller’s classroom. This is the class that I’ve been dreading since I woke up this morning. It’s where I saw glowing pluses yesterday and I hope desperately that I am not going to have the same experience today. 

I settle down at my desk and pull out a sheet of paper to take notes on. Mr. Miller asks us to pass up our homework assignments and I do so mechanically, refusing to look at the paper as I hand it up to the person in front of me. I’m not taking any chances. A part of me knows that trying to avoid seeing the glowing symbols by refusing to look at a single piece of paper is ridiculous, considering the white-board is the first place I saw the symbols, but that paper is what freaked me out the most. White-boards and textbook pages can be explained away by a weird refraction of light whose source I was unable to pinpoint…but a paper I  _ wrote _ on…no. 

Mr. Miller starts his lecture and I’m unsurprised to see it’s a continuation on quadratics. He teaches one chapter each week, and this week it’s all about quadratics. It’s no harder than any other chapter, but it is a bit less interesting. I find myself starting to doze as he continues and pinch my hand hard to stay awake. If I fall asleep in his class, Mr. Miller will give me a detention for inattentiveness. He’s not a forgiving teacher. 

It takes me a moment to realize he’s stopped talking and is staring at me. I blink at him. He’s not the kind of teacher who calls on random people in order to embarrass them. “Yes, Mr. Shade?” he says. 

That’s when I realize my hand is in the air. I didn’t even realize I had a question. I feel myself flush. “Never mind,” I say, lowering my hand. If he asks again, I’ll just say he’s already answered my question. That’s a lie, of course, but I don’t even know what question I was going to ask him, so either way, it’s lose-lose. 

Mr. Miller shakes his head and starts explaining quadratics again. 

I force myself to focus on the lecture. I don’t particularly care to repeat that experience anytime soon.

“Your homework assignment for the weekend is the section beginning on 247. Do all of the even problems in that section.” He writes it on the white-board as he speaks, like we’re going to forget in the minute it takes him to write it on the board. “Get started,” he says. “You have twenty minutes before class ends.” 

Pulling my math book out from under my desk where I keep all my books when I’m not using them, I flip the textbook open to page 247 and breathe a silent sigh of relief. None of the pluses are glowing. Yesterday really  _ was _ just sleep deprivation catching up to me. 

I feel myself start to hum a little in the back of my throat and stop myself. I am ecstatic that the glowing symbols are gone, but humming isn’t something you do in the middle of a class. People look at you weird and yell at you to shut up—it’s happened to me one too many times—so it’s better to just not do it. 

There is no way I’m going to finish the three pages of math he’s assigned us, which is nothing unusual. Mr. Miller gives extra homework over the weekend, just like all other teachers do, because he figures we have an extra two days to complete it so there’s no harm in it. There are a small number of teachers who believe their students should have the weekend to relax and enjoy life, but those are few and far between. 

Still, knowing there are no glowing plus signs, I attack my assignment with renewed fervor. If I can get the majority of this done before I go home, I will be able to talk to my dad about Joe staying with us sooner. And considering the severity of the situation he’s in, the sooner I can talk to my dad, the better. 

The fourth bell rings, signaling both the end of class and the beginning of the weekend. I grin, stretch back in my chair, and start to put my math assignment in the textbook when something catches my eye.  _ Please, God, _ I pray,  _ don’t let that be what I think it is. _ I lean forward to get a better look. To my horror, the glowing pluses are back, but this time, the x’s of multiplication are accompanying them.

I slam the book shut, angry and upset, and stalk out of the classroom. My day, which has been going so well, now feels perfectly ruined. Glowing pluses are one thing. But x’s too? It just doesn’t add up. 


	4. Chapter Three

Cassie meets me at my locker as usual. I don’t know when exactly we established this routine, but ever since we started dating she always waits for me after school by my locker. It seems a bit backwards to me, but she insists that I always get assigned to a locker that is close to a door. Since her last name is Wyatt, she always gets a bottom locker as far away from the exits as possible. She would share mine, but since I never organize it, it exasperates her. For good reason, since I’ve had my books tumble out on top of me a few times. It doesn’t bother me all that much, though, since I’m the one that stacks them up. Plus, a book falling out of my locker every now and then helps keep me alert so I don’t end up with any broken toes. That’s the reason I always give her, but the truth is that I simply don’t care enough to organize it properly. I know where all my books are for every class and I don’t have to search to find anything. To me, it is organized. It being hazardous to my health was unforeseen, but whatever. 

“You really should organize that better,” she says, watching as I grab the two books for the classes I’ve been assigned homework in over the weekend. 

“We’ve had this discussion,” I remind her. 

“Yes, and I still say you need to organize it better.” 

I shrug, staying silent. If she wants to rehash this right now, she’ll have to do it without me. I’m not going to reorganize my locker. 

“If you ever do organize it,” she says, putting her hand on my arm like she’s serious. Her being serious is rare, so I do my best to pay attention even though it’s about a subject I care nothing about. “Maybe we could share it.” 

I roll my eyes. “Cas, you don’t  _ want _ to share a locker with me. Trust me.”

“All my friends are sharing lockers with their boyfriends.” Surprisingly, this doesn’t come out as a whine or even remotely jealous. She’s honestly just stating a fact.

“Since when do you care about what your friends are doing?” 

She smacks me on the shoulder. “Ryan! I always care about what my friends are doing.”

I laugh at her mock incensed tone. “Yeah, sure.” 

“I do!” She subsides. “I’ve just been wondering what they all find so fascinating about sharing a locker with a guy.” Cassie’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “It seems so un-hygienic!” 

“Since when do you care about hygiene?” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You’re an artist.” 

“You say that like it means something.” 

“Doesn’t it?” 

“Artists take baths too, you know.” 

“I didn’t realize I was implying that they didn’t.” 

“Then what exactly were you implying?” 

“That artists get engrossed in their work to the point that they…” I trail off, realizing she’s right about what I was implying. 

“Don’t take baths,” she finishes for me, a triumphant grin on her face that quickly turns to a scowl. “Artists take baths!” 

I put my hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, okay! Artists take baths. You win. Speaking of art, what did Mrs. Baker have to say?” 

Cassie lets out on excited squeal. “She wants me to extend my project. You know how I was originally only supposed to do one sculpture?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well, Mrs. Baker wants me to do another three this month. She thinks I may have a shot to actually sell some of them to the museum.” 

“That’s amazing, Cas!” I say, drawing her into my arms. She is one of the best artists I’ve ever met and her sculptures are amazing. I’ve only seen a few of them, but the ones I’ve seen I like. Cassie doesn’t stick to just one subject, which is good but I think (I don’t know, not being an artist) that it’s rare for an artist to be so versatile. She’s sculpted everything from miniature people to animals to bowls of fruit and other still-life. 

Cassie talks animatedly about her new project while we walk out to my car. I’m not dropping her off at her house tonight, but at Murk’s. She has the early evening shift, so she will be done there at around eight, which will give us some personal time. A lot of us seeing each other is done in a work or school environment, and it will be nice to talk with her without all the background noise. I’m not averse to it going further than talking, either. 

I am only half paying attention to her, because while art is her life and I support her in all of her goals, I am more concerned with the glowing symbols that seem to keep cropping up. I’d like to talk to Cassie about them, but she’s so involved with her art right now that I’ll have to wait until she gets off work. I’m sure she’ll have something to say about it, because, as she reminded me so efficiently in the car this morning, anything supernatural intrigues her. And considering what’s been going on lately, I have an inkling the glowing symbols are, at the very least, something supernatural. 

Once I drop her off, I go home. To my surprise, both my parents’ cars are in the driveway. Considering their conflicting work schedules, it’s amazing anytime the two of them manage to be in one place at the same time as the other. 

“Ryan,” Mom calls as soon as the door bangs shut behind me, “can you come up here a second?” 

I walk upstairs to where she and my dad are working on the bathroom sink. “What’s going on?” I ask, looking around. The floor is coated in water and the shop vacuum is sitting in the doorway, doing its best to suck the water up off the ground. 

“Now what does it look like?” Dad asks, his irritation muffled by the wooden doors of the cabinet under the sink. He’s lying inside it on his back, holding a pipe in one hand and a wrench in the other. I’m not really sure why he’s trying to fix this, since he has no mechanical sense whatsoever. 

The pipe he’s holding has a large crack running through the side. “It looks like the pipe burst,” I say helpfully. I hope he’s not trying to put that cracked pipe back. 

“Yes, yes,” he says impatiently. 

Mom looks at me and mouths,  _ Do something _ , at me like I’m supposed to fix this. I have no clue what she wants me to do. I can keep my car running, but burst pipes? “Why don’t you call a plumber?” I ask. 

“Do I look like I’m made of money?” It’s a ridiculous question, really, because his jeans are soaked through with water and his socks don’t look much better. I’m guessing the rest of his clothes look about the same. 

“I’ll pay for it,” I say. I’d rather pay the bill for a plumber than watch my dad mess something _else_ up and make it cost even more to get fixed. Sometimes a do-it-yourself job is just _not_ worth the hassle. 

Dad slides out from under the sink, a piercing look on his face. “You sure about that, Ryan? Plumbers cost money.” 

_ No, really? _ I want to say, but stifle the impulse to be sarcastic. That’s not the best way to win my dad over. And I’m going to need to win him over so I can convince him that it’s a good idea for Joe to stay with us for a couple months. “It’s fine,” I say. “I’ve got some money put back.” 

“Isn’t that for college?” Mom asks with concern. I love her, but sometimes she makes things difficult. 

“I don’t want you dipping into your college money for this,” Dad says, his tone severe. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” I say, shaking my head in exasperation at my mom. “I do have some put aside specifically for college, but I also have other money put back in case something goes wrong with my car. That was the money I was offering for the plumber, not my college funds.” 

“Oh,” Mom says. 

Dad just grunts and removes himself from underneath the sink. “All right,” he says. “I’ll call the plumber.” 

I sigh silently in relief and follow my dad downstairs and grab a soda. Before I bring up Joe, I need to give my parents the impression that I’m a good student, so I go up to my room and work on my homework for a couple of hours. Surprisingly, all the homework I was assigned over the weekend only  _ takes _ me two hours to finish. The math assignment I thought was going to take four hours took only forty minutes. Apparently quadratics is an easy topic for me, which is a huge relief. And it makes me asking my parents about Joe easier because I don’t have to lie and say all my homework’s done when it really is done. 

Of course, getting my math homework done so quickly could be less because I understand quadratics and more because I really  _ hate _ looking at glowing x’s and pluses. It’s enough to make anyone rush through their homework. I’m just glad the x’s and pluses haven’t transferred to letters yet. It’s bad enough to have to look at them while I’m doing math. How I’d manage to deal with glowing symbols  _ and _ letters is something I’d rather not contemplate just yet. Or ever, really.

Stretching, I push myself away from the desk and stand up. I throw the empty soda can in the trashcan beside my desk and make my way downstairs. Now is a good a time as any. 

Dad’s on the phone when I get downstairs, so I take a seat on the couch. Once he’s done, he’ll realize I need to talk to him. Sitting on the couch in the living room is the way my family says “hey, we need to talk,” instead of saying the actual words. We mostly leave each other alone, so the living room couch  _ only _ gets used for serious conversations. The rest of the time it just serves as decoration. 

I sit on the couch as I wait, trying not to hear my dad’s phone conversation. I know it’s not the plumber, because he’s already been and gone. From what I do hear, in spite of my best efforts to tune him out, my dad is having an argument with someone. And by the sound of it, the other person is winning. I’m trying hard to stay optimistic about bringing Joe up, but if my dad’s in a bad mood that is the last thing I want to have to discuss with him. 

It’s not like I have a choice, though, because Joe’s my best friend and I’m not about to leave him homeless if I can do anything to prevent it. 

Dad hangs up the phone, notices me sitting on the couch, and takes a seat beside me. “What’s up?” he asks, getting straight to the point. This kind of bluntness is rare coming from him and only happens when he is aggravated about something. 

There’s no use trying to build up to my question about Joe when he’s like this. My dad will say no much more quickly if I draw things out. No matter what, I have to do what I can to keep Joe from having to sleep on the streets. “Joe needs a place to stay for a couple months.” 

“Why?”

“He got in a fight with his dad?” 

“So? People fight all the time.” 

It’s impossible not to hesitate a little at that. I don’t think my dad really understands what a fight with Joe entails for  _ anyone. _ “His dad’s in the hospital.” 

Difficult to read anyway, my dad’s expression closes off completely. “Why?” 

I take a deep breath. Even remembering why makes me shake in anger. It’s a good thing Joe’s dad is in the hospital or I may be tempted to put him there myself. “Joe’s dad hit Kylie.” 

My dad is silent for a long moment as he digests that, then “Can’t he stay with his mom?” 

“His mom thinks Joe is the one creating the unstable home environment for Kylie. She doesn’t want him around Kylie until his dad is back home.” 

“That’s a bit backwards.” 

“I know.” 

We play the silent game, waiting to see who will speak first. I’ve had more experience, considering Cassie’s personality, so it comes as no surprise to me when he speaks first. “Okay,” he says, slapping his palms on his jeans as he stands up. They squelch a little because he still hasn’t changed clothes. He nods once as if to confirm he’s okay with his decision, then adds, “Joe can stay—but only until his dad gets out of the hospital. Then he goes back.” 

I’m mostly satisfied, but something is still bugging me. “What about Kylie?” I ask. 

My dad shrugs. “It’s a hard world, Ryan. Child abuse happens every day.” 

“Doesn’t it make you angry?” 

“Incredibly. But you can’t save the world, Ryan.” He walks away before I can retort.

Maybe it’s impossible to save the world, but it seems we could do a little something about our own backyard. It saddens me that my own father is willing to do nothing. I’m not really sure what he could do—call the police or social services maybe—but doing nothing at all seems callous. Maybe Joe has the right of it—even if it is violent to put his dad in the hospital, at least it’s a way to keep Kylie safe. It seems that he’s the only one worried about her safety and it makes me angry. I’ll have to talk to Joe and see if I can’t convince him to go to social services or the police…I can’t do it  _ for  _ him or he’d kill me, but I can at least suggest it. 

Speaking of Joe, I need to let him know that my dad said it was okay for him to stay with us. I reach for the phone I keep in my right hand pocket and realize it’s not there. I must have left it in my room. The thought doesn’t surprise me, because I really don’t want Tim to call me in again tonight. I just want to sleep…after I text Joe. If I’m lucky, maybe I can even convince him to pick Cassie up from work tonight. I was looking forward to spending some time with her, but I’m so tired I’m falling asleep on my feet. 

Forcing my eyes open, I make my way up to my room and grab my cell phone off my desk. I flip it open and scroll through my contacts list until I find Joe’s number and select the option of sending a text message. I type,  _ dad’s cool. u can stay with us. can u pick cas up at 9? i’m beat, need sleep. thx _ , and hit send. 

I close the phone, strip down to my boxers, and lay on top of the blankets on my bed. It’s way too hot to be underneath them. Picking up the phone, I set it down on the table beside my bed. I don’t feel like walking across the room to pick it up when Joe texts me back. As soon as I set it down, it starts vibrating—Joe must have been waiting for the text. 

_ u sure cas won’t mind?  _

I type,  _ i’m sure she’ll get over it. _

Joe’s response is almost instant.  _ lol. i’ll be sure to tell her u said that. guess i’m crashing on the sofa? _

_ yep. and cas won’t care. thx.  _

  1. _cya._



Relieved that the conversation is over, I am finally able to close my eyes and fall asleep. And sleep, considering how tired I am, is blissfully instantaneous. 


	5. Chapter Four

All hope I have that the glowing symbols were caused by sleep deprivation instantly vanishes when I walk through the doors of my school on Monday morning. My eyes are immediately drawn to the big orange exit sign at the end of the hallway. The x and t, as expected, are glowing. That’s not what catches my attention. The arrow pointing left is what ensnares me. 

The arrow isn’t glowing, exactly. While the color and the arrow itself stays on the sign, there seems to be a second golden transparent arrow floating a few inches in front of the tangible sign, overlaying the physical arrow. This is the first time one of the symbols seems to float on top of its visible representation. I almost feel like I could reach out and touch it, but that if I attempted to do so the golden arrow would disperse and disappear. 

A sudden inexplicable longing explodes inside me and I feel a need approaching desperation to touch that golden arrow and force it into a solid—to prevent it from disappearing. The arrow, out of all the symbols I’ve seen so far, seems to be of incredible importance. Looking at it, knowing that the arrow on the exit sign won’t disappear even if the intangible one does, makes me feel safe. 

It takes a moment for me to realize where my thoughts are headed and I shake them off. Feeling safe by looking at an exit sign is ridiculous! There’s nothing in the school I have to run away from and I’m not one of those crazy people who have to mark all the exits out of a room before stepping foot inside it. Still, I can’t help glancing back over my shoulder to make sure the floating arrow is still there before I walk into my classroom. 

I spend my first two periods—history and political science—thinking about the symbols, trying to make sense of them. So far, a plus (or cross), an x, and an arrow have presented themselves. According to Cassie, plus means need…but a cross means sacrifice. And I’ve already explored need—nothing fit. So maybe I’m supposed to sacrifice something? Considering I’m not religious at all, the very idea of sacrifice seems ludicrous. The x makes me think of old pirate movies and treasure maps or maybe a multiplication. But I don’t think it’s possible to times something…wait, you can  _ multiply _ things in real life. Times’ is a confusing word. Maybe that’s why they started using ‘and.’ But what does that mean? Sacrifice, Need, and? Or maybe Need and Sacrifice? And then an arrow? Where does the arrow fit? Arrows point you places…that’s their only usage. So why would an arrow make me feel safe? 

I groan silently, immensely relieved when the lunch bell rings. Maybe I should stop trying to figure out what the symbols mean and consider the idea I’m going insane. 

People don’t see glowing symbols. They just don’t. Trying to rationalize what I’m seeing is probably the clearest indicator that I’m losing grip on reality. But I can’t just tell people about this. Even Cassie won’t think this much craziness is cool. She was as convinced as I was that these visions—symbols—whatever they are—were just a product of sleep deprivation. Obviously not. 

There’s just one problem with hiding this from people and that’s the simple fact I can’t lie. Maybe if I ignore them they’ll disappear…just thinking that makes me feel lame because if I’m seeing symbols fully rested, pretending isn’t going to work. Plus, I’m not someone who can become aware of something and just ignore it. Being born blind isn’t a choice—seeing something then gouging out your eyes to be able to claim you don’t see it is a choice. And it’s a coward’s choice. I’m not the bravest person I know, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I am definitely  _ not _ a coward. 

Still…telling others isn’t an option. I’m going to have to learn to lie convincingly, and fast. Because I have absolutely no desire to find myself in some sort of psychiatric hospital. I’ve got a life to live—I don’t particularly care to spend it wasting away in a straight jacket on medication meant to turn me into a dullard. 

I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, focusing on calming myself. I worked up a bit of a panic thinking about psychiatric hospitals, so it’s a necessary exercise. Calm, I open my eyes and finish my lunch. Whatever happens, I have to stay clam. It’s the only way I’ll know for sure I’m not going insane. If I panic and lose track of myself, I may not be able to find my way back to reality.

Feeling like you might be going crazy is the worst feeling in the world. It’s like walking a tightrope when you’re terrified of heights. You know you shouldn’t look down because the ground below is enticing, alluring…and terrifying. So you tell yourself that everything will be fine if you don’t look. But everyone looks down, sooner or later.

Right now, I’m doing my best to make that  _ later. _ I cannot afford to go crazy right now. And right now is what I have to focus on. Nothing else.

That thought in mind, I push the symbols to the back corner of my mind and take a seat in Mrs. Lawton’s classroom. English should help some since it’s the only class I haven’t seen symbols in. That’s not entirely accurate because I didn’t see any in political science either, but I don’t really count that because I sleep through that class. So there could have been symbols there…I just wasn’t awake to notice them.

English is different. Even though the t’s and x’s on signs in the hallways glow, nothing in this classroom has ever hinted at glowing. It makes me wonder if there is something special about this room, but it looks just like every other classroom except for the few things that make it clear this is Mrs. Lawton’s space. Whatever the reason symbols don’t show up here, I’m just thankful I have somewhere I can escape having to deal with them.

Mrs. Lawton comes out of her office, a space barely big enough for a small desk and a chair, and takes her place in front of the class. “Pop quiz today,” she says brightly. 

I groan along with the rest of the class. I will never understand why teachers get so happy giving tests. There’s nothing exciting about them. Even in English, when the quiz consists of open-ended questions, if you don’t put what the teacher wants to hear (or what you think she wants to hear), you get graded down. Just once, I’d like to see a quiz with open-ended questions that really are open-ended. It seems people would learn more if we were allowed to express our own opinions—with backing evidence—instead of being forced to repeat what we’re told. Sometimes I think school is a farce.

I take the papers I’m handed, remove one, and pass them back. Even though my last name is Shade, I always seem to get seated at the front. Speaking of seats, what’s the deal with assigned seating? I understood it in elementary school. Even kinda got it in middle school. But high school? Maybe freshman year is understandable. But senior year? I mean, really. I’m eighteen years old, legally an adult, and I’m still not allowed to choose my own seat? It’s a bit ridiculous. 

But any train of thought is welcome at this point—as long as it’s a normal type of thought. I turn my attention to my quiz and frown. Why are the lines all highlighted? I start to raise my hand to ask when I notice a slight shimmer.

Oh. It’s not highlighted. All the letters on this piece of paper are glowing and their golden counterparts are floating a centimeter above them, causing the highlighted look. Despair crashes into me. So much for having a safe haven. It’s not even worth trying to figure out the meaning of the symbols anymore. Every single letter is glowing. And I don’t know what the alphabet has to do with the meaning of life. If I have to go crazy, couldn’t it at least happen in a cool way? Like seeing chairs turn into people or something? Glowing letters pales in consideration to all the other types of insanity. Of course, if I have to go insane, maybe it’s better it’s something so simple. At least I know I’m losing my mind. Shape-shifting furniture would just be scary. Not that floating letters aren’t scary…well, they aren’t, actually. The only thing scary about floating letters is that it signifies I’m going insane.

Whatever. For now, I just have to focus on getting through this class. One step at a time. I can’t do anything about glowing symbols that float, but I can answer the questions on this quiz. So I focus on that and try to ignore the floating letters. I turn the paper over as soon as I’m done, both to show I’m done and to rid myself of the sight of the letters but mostly the latter. 

Finally, Mrs. Lawton calls pencils down and takes the quizzes form us, depositing them in a pile on her classroom desk. She’s one of a few privileged teachers who have both an office and classroom desk. No one needs that much space.

The class ends and I breathe a sigh of relief. Now all that’s left is to get through Mr. Miller’s class. Math…I dread this class so much I can almost taste it. The dread, I mean. Not the class. Math would probably taste crunchy. Now I know I’m nervous. I’m making jokes even I know are lame. But this class is where everything started. Where the symbols originated. So it’s certainly going to be the place they show themselves the strongest. So considering I’m going insane and math class is to blame, I have good reason to feel such a strong aversion.

Maybe I should just skip…but no. I can’t. My grades will suffer. And even if I am going crazy, I will  _ not _ be stuck in community college. Not even to avoid these symbols.

Even so, I feel a supreme reluctance to enter Mr. Miller’s classroom and begin to waver in my decision to be stoic. 

Randy, a fellow classmate, scowls at me. “Dude, you’re blocking the door.” 

I come to myself with a jolt and make my way mechanically to my seat. I offer no apology, unable to find my manners in the face of the new reality crashing down upon me. 

And that reality is that I’m well and truly on my way to insanity or enlightenment—I’m not sure which, just yet. And that sensation is caused by the fact that the letters and glowing symbols were all just a catalyst for  _ this. _

Every thing—every person, every object, every insect in this room—is awash with golden symbols. They are all transparent, so I can still make out the concrete appearance of the world around me, but there is nothing untouched by these symbols. 

And it is magnificent to behold. There are no words to define it, not really. Words are a pale imitation for the picture before me. 

It’s like waking up, all at once, to knowledge that nothing is what it seems, that everything is constructed. Every person, from what I can tell, is an odd conglomeration of symbols but no-one is made of the exact combination of symbols as anyone else.

It feels, almost, like discovering everything I ever thought I knew about life was a lie. And, instead of making me angry, it makes me sad. Because who wouldn’t want to see the universe broken down into these tiny bits and pieces, to see themselves as a miniature jigsaw puzzle that fits in symmetrically with the rest of the world? 

I could almost cry, it is so beautiful. And if I just knew, if I could just understand what all these symbols mean, I could grasp the meaning, the answer to every question I’ve ever had. 

Still, somehow, I manage to wrench my attention away from it and focus on keeping attention away from  _ me. _ I don’t need to go home worried about strange rumors being spread around. 

It’s hard, though, to stay focused now that I’ve seen such an amazing sight. The swirls of symbols that people are fascinate me and I long to know what each grouping means. And everything fits together, somehow, into this one symbol I can’t grasp the form of because it is wider than my vision, but I know it’s there. And I know because every object fits seamlessly into its own existence and the larger symbol moves to accommodate it. 

Even watching my pen move across the paper in front of me is astonishing, because I move the pen and as soon as I do, everything moves to accommodate the movement. Nothing is disturbed—the larger symbol is a perfect flow, allowing nothing to alter its form. Because everything is acceptable, all things and all people have their place. And none of it matters because the little symbols, the small construction of symbols that is me, can never do anything to change the large symbol. Its form is infinite, stretching further than I can see or ever hope to but I know that it is unaffected by anything I do. And will always be unaffected.

All of this occurs to me in the simple act of grading my classmate’s homework, and at first it astonishes and amazes me. But that astonishment is quickly turning to fear.

Fear that I am absolutely losing my mind and that such seemingly amazing revelations are, in actuality, proof of my impending insanity. And that fear crashes over me, pummeling me with its force. 

I don’t  _ want _ this. I want to go back to the days when all I had to worry about was school, work, and Cassie. A mental breakdown is  _ not _ something I know how to handle. I don’t want this new knowledge, this insanity. Being crazy is not an option for me, not when I have so much going on in my life. I wish fervently, almost desperately, for these symbols to leave me in peace and find another person to torment. 

I thought I could handle faking it, pretend the symbols didn’t exist in front of everyone, but this, the whole world being awash with them—is just too big to ignore. On too grand of a scale for me to just walk away or feign ignorance. 

But I never asked for this…this curse! I never asked for any special gift, any unique vision, or to lose my mind if that’s what’s happening. All I’ve ever wanted is to live a normal, simple life with the people I love outside of this town. 

That’s all I’ve ever wanted. So why? Why now, why me? And why like this? 


	6. Chapter Five

School ends and all I can think is _ , Thank God. _ I hurry to my car, not bothering to stop and meet Cassie. She’d know for sure that something is up and I don’t want her knowing. I don’t want her to think I’m losing my mind because I’d like to keep her respect. 

I’m sure deserting her will make her angry, but I can’t work up the energy to care. If she was scheduled to work today, I may feel differently, but it’s her day off, so I’m sure she’ll be okay. 

Thinking of that reminds me I’m scheduled to go in at six. There is absolutely  _ no way _ in hell I’m going into work half-crazed. So I determine to call Tim as soon as I get home and let him know I won’t be joining him tonight.

It makes me feel kind of bad to do that to Tim, because he’ll never suspect something’s wrong. I hate that I have to lie to him, but I cannot afford for him to know the truth. That would ruin everything between us. It would destroy Tim’s respect for me as well as his trust in me. Neither of which are things I want to lose. 

But this—these symbols—if I can’t just ignore them then I’ll have to explore them. I’m not really sure how I’m going to go about doing that, but it’s the only option I have left.

I pull into my driveway and take the steps up to my room three at a time, making the short distance in record time. I take a seat at my desk, knees trembling with fear and excitement. I have  _ got _ to get myself under control.

Taking a moment to regain my composure, I flip open my cell phone and dial Tim’s cell. 

“Hey, Ryan. What’s up?” 

I feel horrible that I’m going to be lying to Tim and can’t speak for a moment, choked by the enormous absurdity of my actions. 

“Ryan?” Tim is concerned. 

“I’m not feeling well, Tim. I don’t think I can make it in tonight.” I don’t attempt to fake being sick—I’m horrible at it. Plus, Tim knows when I  _ am _ sick I don’t seem to  _ be _ sick. 

“All right, no problem. Actually, both our renegade cooks showed up today so we’re well covered.”

“Both of them?” I ask, unable to keep from voicing my incredulity. 

“Yeah…something about needing more hours.” His tone is both amused and exasperated.

I chuckle quietly to myself. What better luck could I have asked for? Despite my hatred for these symbols and everything they mean for my personal life, it seems they come with a bit of a reprieve. Of course, it’s probably purely coincidental, but luck’s luck—I have every intention of taking full advantage of it. 

Speaking of…I better call Cassie before she storms my house demanding an explanation. She’s volatile like that. I say a hasty goodbye to Tim and dial her number. 

She answers with a curt, angry, “Where the fuck were you today? I waited for an hour!” 

“I’m sorry,” I offer lamely. 

“Sorry?  _ Sorry?! _ I had to ask Joe for a ride home. So you’d better have a better reason than sorry!” 

I cringe—I can’t help it. I never thought she’d ask Joe for a ride. They genuinely  _ despise _ each other and only manage to get along because they care for me. Getting Joe to pick here up from Murk’s the other day was a miracle in itself and only happened since I passed out from exhaustion. Knowing she has to ask Joe for a ride from school because of my selfishness makes me feel a moment’s shame. “I’m sorry, Cas. I felt sick and all I was thinking about was getting home before it got worse. You know how I am when I get sick,” I say, pleading. All of this is technically true, only of course I’m feeling insane rather than physically ill. 

Cassie’s tone, when she next speaks, is gentle. “I do know. And it sucks that all these bad things are happening to you in such rapid succession.” 

“I was really worried it’d get worse, Cas. I really didn’t want to stick around and find out the hard way.” I leave unspoken the idea I didn’t want to expose her to it, but I know her well enough to know she’s already come to that conclusion. 

“Yes, well, considering how rarely you get sick and how bad it usually is, I’m glad that I took my chances with Joe. Have you called Tim yet?” 

And like that, I know I’m forgiven. “Yeah. Both the no-shows showed up for once.” The words fall bitterly from my lips.

“Still healthy enough to hate them?” she asks, her tone tinged with amusement. 

“Can’t help it,” I reply honestly, “they irritate the crap out of me.” 

“Because they have lives outside of work?” 

“Because they have no respect for the people who help them out when they don’t have to,” I say. I really don’t want to argue with her—we’ve had this conversation one too many times. 

“Sure,” she says, dropping it so suddenly I nearly drop my phone in surprise. “I’ll see you later, Ry, when you’re better.” 

“Thanks, Cas,” I say gently, astonished my girlfriend is capable of such compassion. I mean, I  _ know _ she is, but it almost always blindsides me. 

“Sure. Love you.” 

“Love you too.” 

I wait for the click, which isn’t long in coming, and then hang up myself. Some couples have problems hanging up, but not us. I always wait because it seems more polite to me, but she never struggles with ending our conversations.

My amazing girlfriend aside, I’ve got work to do. Now that everyone’s been taken out of the picture, I can concentrate on the symbols. Maybe now I’ll finally get a chance to learn something—like how to keep myself sane.

I look around my room, assessing the potential tools that surround me. If I am to explore these symbols in order to understand them, I am going to need some type of medium. Just seeing everything covered in symbols doesn’t tell me very much.

Since I’m seated at my desk, the first thing that comes to mind is my computer. It’s not an idea I consider for long, because only a handful of symbols resemble the letters on my keyboard. I need a way to physically produce my own rendition of the symbols. Because somehow I know that by doing so, I’ll be able to grasp a fuller understanding of what each one means individually. And that means that understanding each one individually will contribute to my understanding of how they all work collectively. 

I catch the corner of a book in my peripheral vision and walk over to my bookshelf. I pull on the spiral binding, expecting to find an old notebook. Flipping it open, I realize that I have a sketchbook in my hand and that it’s never been used. I don’t remember purchasing this sketchbook or receiving it as a gift from anyone. I’m not much of an artist so it’s no surprise that the pages are empty.

What does surprise me is the sudden, overwhelming urge to pick up a pencil and start drawing the symbols on its pages. The force of it causes me to stagger a bit even as I retrieve a pencil and take a seat on the floor, sketchbook open before me.

The first symbol I draw is the one of knowledge and answers and as soon as I put its shape on paper, I know my symbols are runes. They are an ancient language; an old magic that has been all but forgotten. And I understand on a deep level that I am not going crazy, that discovering these runes is my birthright.

Other knowledge flows into me so quickly and effortlessly that when I reach for it, it becomes elusive. Just looking at this rune allows me the understanding of a long lost language and every rune I view paints a vivid picture of itself. 

I spend a long time with the rune of knowledge and learn a lot about the runes themselves. Regretfully, no true knowledge of my magic is shown me so I am stuck trying to learn its usage with little guidance. 

I understand that the runes aren’t here to teach me or to guide me, though they have functioned that way for others when needed. No, the runes are a  _ part _ of me, as intrinsic to my nature as drawing breath. The air I breathe cannot explain to me how I use it—it is just an unseen force, a phenomena of life for which no explanation that can capture it’s miraculous nature is truly possible. So it is with the runes swirling around me.

The rune of knowledge that I’ve drawn no longer ensnares me. It has imparted all that it can in this capacity. Drawing the runes like this is simply a way for me to grasp completely their meanings—it serves no other purpose. 

But for now, understanding them is all that matters to me. Nothing else is important because in this magic I am discovering the most important part of myself.

I turn back to my sketchbook and draw the crooked plus I saw that first fateful day in Mr. Miller’s classroom.  _ Necessity _ is the rune’s name and meaning. I see it clearly, that this magic coming into my life is a necessity, a change for the better. 

In the back of my mind, some part of me wonders if I have finally fallen off the edge and gone completely insane, but these runes engage me so completely that I cannot find much energy to care. Even if I have lost my mind, I still have this new magic. 

A thought that should alarm me sends me rushing back to my sketchbook, drawing rune after rune, so that I can completely grasp their meanings. I am in the middle of drawing the rune of danger when Joe knocks on my door. 

“Ryan, you alright? Cassie said she waited an hour.” He leaves unspoken that he drove her home. 

I stare forlornly down at the rune I’ve just drawn. I long to stay here and to study it until I completely comprehend it, but Joe is calling me back to responsibility. Somehow, I find the strength to force myself away from the sketchbook and open my door to peer at Joe. 

“You don’t look so hot man,” he says, taking a couple steps backward. 

Confusion swallows me at his words because I’m not sick. In fact, I feel remarkably well. But I still have to keep up the charade I started about being sick with Tim and Cassie earlier today. “Eh, I’m not feeling that great,” I say. 

“I can see that. Did you call Cassie? I know she was worried.” 

“Yeah. Why do you care?” I ask, suddenly irritated. “You don’t even like her.” 

“Whoa, man.” Joe puts out his hands in a placating gesture used to calm wild animals. “I just know how much she means to you, that’s all.” 

And like that, my irritation vanishes. For one insane second I’d had a suspicion Joe had some sort of design to claim Cas as his and it’d made me snappy. But at Joe’s easy answer, logic comes flooding back. “Yeah, sorry. I know that. I—like I said, I’m just not feeling well.” 

“It’s cool. I’ll talk to you when you are…on second thought, do you need anything? Some Tylenol or something?” 

I shake my head wordlessly and close the door gently. Maybe it’s rude to close the door in someone’s face, but I really don’t care about that right now. 

The only thing in the world that means anything to me are these runes. 

I settle firmly on the floor and continue sketching Danger. It shows me all the different meanings of danger and there’s a foreboding that lingers as I go onto the next rune. It could mean danger is approaching me, but the very thought is ridiculous. 

Drawing runes isn’t dangerous. Having Joe here isn’t unsafe.  Cassie means me no harm. My parents would never hurt me. Still, the sense lingers as I trace the rune of justice in my sketchbook. 

Drawing the rune, I resolve that no one and nothing will distract me from this task. I must draw all of these runes; I must comprehend all of their meanings before I will move from this spot. 

I do not know how long I sit there, drawing, before my body’s need for sleep catches up to me and I pass out on top of my sketches, pencil still firmly grasped in my fist.


	7. Chapter Six

Waking up sprawled in the floor on top of a sketchbook that is digging into the right side of my face is probably the most unpleasant experience I’ve had upon waking. The pencil my hand still holds in a firm grip has made an indentation in my flesh that is nearly as painful as the marks the sketchbook’s spiraling has left on my face. 

I stretch, groaning, and retreat into the bathroom to ready myself for a long day. 

Not for school, though that is where I should be going, but for rune research. School’s importance pales in comparison to the thrill of being the only one able to decipher an ancient language. And a  _ magic _ language, at that!

What school could possibly hold my interest now?  What person could persuade me to come away from such wonder? No one and nothing, is my answer. This is my birthright, my inheritance. And I  _ will _ explore it.

The day passes the same as yesterday evening with one notable difference—no one bothers me. Perhaps Joe’s told my parents that I’m ill and they’ve taken it upon themselves not to disturb me. Or perhaps my parents are out on business. Either way, it scarcely matters. As long as I’m not bothered, I’m content.

I am content to continue drawing these runes over and over and over again until I completely understand them. Surely when I can grasp them in their entirety, I’ll be able to  _ use _ them. To use such language, such magic—I’ve never dreamed of the possibility. 

I feel half-crazed going after the secret of their usage, but it doesn’t matter. Everything in the world has ceased to matter to me except these runes. 

Time runs together and when I look outside, it is dark. The next time, it is light. I steal short naps occasionally, but I’ve lost count of the days it is taking me to do this research. 

I come close to the answer of the runes’ usage a few times, but it eludes me. I feel discouraged, sometimes angry, but my determination to find the answer never wavers. 

Before I am consciously aware of people being in the room with me, I am aware of voices and snatches of conversation that float to me on the air. 

“He’s not well,” my dad observes and I am unsure if he is talking  _ now _ or if I am just now remembering things said earlier. 

“How long can he stay like this?” Cassie’s question, directed towards my mother. 

“He has to eat sometime.” My mother’s voice, near to breaking. 

“He’s lost his mind.” Joe, astute as ever. 

“We’ll have to take him there.” My dad, telling my mother a truth she can’t bear to hear. 

“Why now? I know he’s been under a lot of pressure, but I didn’t think it’d come to this.” Cassie, lamenting my apparent insanity. 

Part of me wants to turn to them, all of them, and scream,  _ Can’t you see what I’m doing? Don’t you see how important this work is? _ But the rest of me, the part that wins out, cares little about such confrontation. Instead, I focus more fully on my sketchbook. It has become my link to the runes and the runes have consumed me. 

But instead of feeling fear or worry, I am genuinely content. Nothing matters more to me than this. Because, surely, once I find the answers in the runes, I will be able to share that beauty with the people so concerned for me. as soon as I know how to use them freely, the runes will release their grip on me and I will be able to use them to set things right. To make part of the world whole, if only a small part of it. 

The next time I wake, I have to fight down a wave of panic. I am not in my room, not even in my own house. The room I’m in is small and non-descript. There is a small window set in the far wall but the other walls are barren. A small nightstand sits beside the twin-sized bed I find myself in and a quick search of the room reveals a closet-sized bathroom and a closet half the size of the bathroom. There is another bed in the room, as well, but it is thankfully unoccupied. 

I find myself reaching instinctively for my sketchbook and pencil, but they are nowhere to be found. Even as obsessed with the runes as I’ve become, I am still quick-witted enough to know what has befallen me. 

My parents have deemed it necessary to entrust me to the care of a psychiatric hospital. I am, in their eyes, insane. At that realization, my old fears wash over me because they have become my reality. I do not want to be here. I thought I could keep the appearance of sanity and go after the runes, too. I don’t think I realized how completely the runes would consume me. 

And now it’s come to this. Well, I can think of only one thing to do—deny insanity and pretend to be normal. I am not insane, just infused with a special gift others will look at as insanity. But surely pretense is an option.

_ Oh yes, Ryan, _ I think a bit bitterly and a mite hysterically, _ that plan worked out so well before. _

But what other option do I have? I suppose, perhaps, that I can be honest about my magic. That presents its own complications, ones I’m not sure I’m willing to face.

Sitting down on the bed I’ve been provided, I sink my face into my hands and sigh, feeling resigned. 

Time passes slowly and I count the ceiling tiles five times before someone unlocks the door. I sit up automatically, hoping fervently it’s someone come to tell me this is all just a bad joke, some sort of horrible mix-up. 

No such luck, of course. “Ah, good, you’re awake. I’m Sarah, the day nurse. You have an appointment scheduled with Dr. Mint.” 

I stare at the strange bubbly woman whose blonde hair keeps falling into her eyes, but I make no move to get up. 

“Well, come on,” she says impatiently, tapping her foot. 

I recover my wits enough to follow her out of my room and down the hallway into a sparsely decorated office. 

“Take a seat,” a male voice suggests and I do, watching as Sarah hurries on her way out of the office. 

“Hello, Ryan. I’m Dr. Mint.” 

I take in the man before me, who has moved so he’s right in front of me, hand outstretched. I shake it automatically. He’s short and stocky, bald with a gray ring crowning his head. For all that he looks severe, he has a kindly disposition and he sits, not across from me, but directly beside me on the couch. 

I admit I am a bit unnerved. I expect a psychiatrist to be more reserved, but he seems incredibly at ease. 

He produces my sketchbook from underneath the pile of papers he’d been holding under his arm when he shook my hand. I long to lunge for it, but that seems a bad way to open this session as well as a good way to guarantee never seeing my sketchbook again. 

“Your parents tell me they found you drawing in this and that they were unable to pull you away from it. And that you stopped eating because you became obsessed. So. Is this true?”

I close my eyes, thinking hard. I don’t necessarily  _ need _ the book to continue my research, but it makes it easier. And I can either lie or be honest. I decide to trust my runic sight and examine all the runes that make up the man beside me. Everything I can understand—and there’s quite a bit I don’t—hints that this man is trustworthy. Nothing says he’ll believe me—or that he won’t—but I do know I can trust he’ll keep my secrets. “It’s true,” I admit. “I didn’t mean to get as caught up as I did.” 

Dr. Mint nods at me. I take it as an invitation to continue. 

I tell him about the runes—from when I first started seeing them in my math class up to the time I saw them as  _ everything. _

Rather than appearing disgusted as I wrap up my story, he appears intrigued. “And do you still see the world this way?” 

I nod, relieved someone is going to treat me like a person and not as some freak show. I saw as much, causing Dr. Mint to laugh. 

“Do you want to continue seeing the world this way, Ryan?” 

I stare at him, then turn aside bitterly. “What other option do I have, Dr. Mint?” 

“Jim.” 

I give him a blank look.

“Call me Jim, Ryan. And there are other options.” 

“I’ve tried everything, Jim,” I say, unable to disguise my bitterness. I’m almost surprised at the vehemence coming from me over this. I thought I’d accepted the runes. But a part of me still hates them. 

I hate them for imposing on my life, for forcing me to face the fact I may spend my life in an institution before I even get a chance to marry Cassie or go to school. I hate everything they represent. 

“I doubt you’ve tried my options,” Jim says, voice softly wry. 

I smile uncertainly. “Well, then, what do you suggest?” 

“Medication,” he answers promptly. “I’d like to try medication to see if it helps erase these visions.” I feel almost panicked at the thought, but he adds, as if sensing that panic, “but it has to be your choice, Ryan. No one here will force medicine on you if you don’t wish it.” 

That phrase decides me. “All right,” I say, meeting Dr. Mint’s eyes. “I’ll take your medicine.

He smiles and the session ends. Sarah brings me my first dosage and a bottle of water to take it with. I thank her, but she’s a brusque woman so she doesn’t acknowledge me. 

I lie in bed for a long time, just thinking. Thinking of Cassie, of Murk’s, and of the runes. The runes which seem to follow me everywhere. Finally, I close my eyes and drift off to sleep until the aroma of food wakes me.

To my surprise, the person who has brought me lunch isn’t Sarah and when my brain catches up with me I realize that of course Sarah cannot be responsible for everything. 

The man setting a tray of food upon the small nightstand is scrawny and exudes such an unpleasantness I have no real wish to speak to him. But my parents have instilled manners in me that will not allow me to stay silent. “Thank you,” I say, mustering sincerity. 

He turns and looks at me, scrutinizing me as I am able to assess him. My words startle him—he doesn’t seem to be the kind of person others have shown gratitude towards very often. Not because they’ve been crass or ill-mannered—rather, he’s the type to invite scorn and disquiet. There’s something not quite  _ right _ about him, like he’s missing something vital—as if he is somehow less than human. 

I stow my thoughts on the matter because he is still assessing me and a large part of me does not wish to unsettle this man. Finally, he grunts—it’s either an acknowledgment of my thanks or a complete dismissal of me as a person—and leaves the room. 

Exhaling in relief, I turn to the bland food before me. Tasteless mystery meat, mashed potatoes, green beans. And apple juice. I force myself to choke it down, knowing this is the only fare I’ll be receiving—I can’t ask for a different meal. Well, maybe I could, I don’t know for sure, but my manners won’t allow me.

Sarah comes by with another dose of my medication and I toss it back wordlessly. She seems to dislike me, for a reason I can’t begin to unravel, so I respect that and don’t attempt to engage her in conversation.

I pace around the small room, feeling confined, and do my best not to focus on the idea this may be my home for the rest of my life. Even the barest whisper of the thought sends me into an even more agitated pace. I am allowed no books, no paper—it is the medium through which my insanity expressed itself and thus to be avoided—so I am left with nothing to do but pace. Or sit on my bed, staring into space. 

I alternate between the two, idly wondering when the medicine is going to take away the runes. I almost hope it doesn’t, because the runes are fascinating. Especially now that I have nothing to do but stare at them. 

The man from lunch brings in my supper and I thank him again. He may disturb me, but he still deserves my gratitude for both the food and the break in my newly monotonous existence. 

He stares at me just as intensely as before, then leaves as silently. This time I catch the name on his badge—Jeremy. I resolve next time to thank him by name. 

Sarah follows soon after with my last dosage for the day. Again, she is silent. I don’t foresee her changing—she really hates this job or me—perhaps both. 

When I am again left to myself I stare at the runes that make up the wall and silently beseech them to show me their truths. Failing to make any sort of progress in that direction, I give up and settle in for a good night’s sleep. At least, in sleep, no harm can befall me. 


	8. Chapter Seven

To my credit and surprise, no bad dreams lie in wait for me. I wake feeling refreshed, my sense of purpose renewed. I will figure out the runes and put them to use. I will escape from this prison. My magic will see me through. 

This sense of determination doesn’t fade when Sarah brings me my morning dose of medication. Even if the runes do disappear, I’m convinced I’ll find a way out of here. Whether it’s the conventional method of being cured or through magic doesn’t matter much. I won’t be here much longer and that’s the only thought I’m willing to entertain. 

I eat the cold breakfast that’s been left on my nightstand, doing my best to ignore both how bland and how cold it is. Feeling satiated, if not satisfied, I turn to the task at hand. Since I am forbidden pen and paper, I will have to make do with tracing the runes on the wall with my fingertips. 

I settle comfortably on my bed, knowing I’m creating an image of myself as a lazy lay-about, but I don’t want to risk being found out by anyone who just chances by the room.

The first rune I trace against the wall is the rune for questing. I blink as I watch the rune I’ve traced insert itself amongst the other runes on the wall, blending in like it’s always been there. 

Intrigued, I peer closer at this rune, wondering if it’s different than the others in more than just meaning. None of the runes I ever drew on paper joined with the runes that comprised the paper itself, so this is a new development and of huge importance. Surely there’s more to this, a way to make the runes work for me. 

I squelch my sense of excitement—I need to tread cautiously so as not to get ahead of myself and make an undouble mistake. Instead of drawing another rune to see if it too becomes part of the wall, I decide to explore the meaning of the quest rune.

It isn’t a rune I’ve drawn before; one of about five I didn’t get to in the few days I was shut up in my room. 

Quest is such an archaic idea. This whole notion causes me to think of the quests boys used to go on in the middle ages in order to prove they were worthy of being called men. Such an idea—that men only become men through quests—has been long dead. Or, if not quite dead, something only read about in books, a romantic notion not to indulge.

But the runes are an ancient language and probably predate the middle ages by hundreds, if not thousands, of years. And the sense of questing isn’t quite the same as my thoughts on the subject. 

The rune sense of quest is both physical and metaphysical. It speaks of a time when all people, not just boys, embarked on journeys. But these journeys weren’t meant to establish them as men and women in the eyes of society. No, these quests were much more sacred. 

People went on such journeys only when they were ready to face themselves. Though physical in nature, every obstacle or opportunity that presented itself during these quests were stepping stones on a path to a personal understanding of themselves. 

Rather than journeys to prove their worth in the eyes of others, they were quests in which people set out to discover their own self-worth. 

The very idea of such a quest in today’s society is almost laughable. When people say “I’m leaving home to find myself,” others laugh at them and assure them that it’s impossible to do. After all, they spent years doing the same thing before realizing the impossibility of it. And that disbelief is infectious. 

I sigh. Thinking about how disillusioned people are is depressing. I don’t really want to spend the day unhappy when I already have to spend it cramped in this tiny room with nothing to do but stare at the wall. 

Well, there is one thing that will help with that. Another rune will surely improve my mood and I’ll be able to see if the quest rune is unique in its ability to merge with other runes. Almost without conscious thought, I trace the rune Joy on the wall. 

It, too, sinks in and joins the wall runes. Just looking at the joy rune makes me smile. It’s a simple rune and exudes the sense that everything is right with the world. It works as a balm on the depression I’d begun to feel. 

I am immediately curious why these runes have decided to take up residence with the others making up the wall. Before I get a chance to truly explore the phenomena, Sarah is in my room insisting it’s time for my meeting with Dr. Mint. 

“Didn’t I just seem him yesterday?” I blurt, flushing when she glares at me. 

I follow her meekly down the hall to Dr. Mint’s office, doing my best to ignore the muttered comments she makes about having to pull doubles and deal with incompetent idiots. When she mentions pulling doubles, it’s the first time it occurs to me that when she introduced herself it was as the  _ day _ nurse. But so far she’s been the only nurse I’ve come into contact with at all. I feel a rush of sympathy for her. I know how hard it is to be overworked. 

“Sit down, please,” Dr. Mint says. 

I’m startled out of my contemplation at the sound of his voice and take a seat automatically, still staring down the hall after Sarah. 

“Don’t mind her,” Dr. Mint says. 

That catches my attention and I drag my eyes from the hallway and focus on the psychiatrist. 

“She’s normally quite friendly, but with the recent budget cuts she’s rather stressed since she’s the only nurse we can afford,” he offers in way of explanation. 

Overworked is a bit of an understatement, then. If she’s the only nurse working in the hospital…”How does she do it?” 

Dr. Mint sighs. “She’s a strong woman, but enough about hospital affairs. We’re here to talk about you.” 

“I didn’t think shrinks saw patients more than once a week.” I know it’s slightly rude, but Jim went from shrink to friend the moment he suggested I address him by his first name. Manners aren’t as important between friends, since they’re designed to use with strangers. At least, that’s my take on it. 

Jim smiles at me indulgently. “You’re right. Normally I don’t see any of my patients more than once a week.” 

I sigh. Here it comes. He’s going to tell me I’m a special case; that he’s never seen anyone so messed up. I wait for the blow to fall, for him to seal my fate, but it never comes. The silence stretches until it snaps—or, rather, my patience does. “And?” I demand. “Why are you seeing me twice?” 

“Your parents asked me to. And as they are responsible for your financial care, I saw no harm in obliging.” 

Great. Just what I need. Why is it that my parents seem to stick their noses in places they don’t belong? I am completely disgusted, although a part of me that I ruthlessly suppress is a tiny bit touched my parents care so much. 

“But you are 18, Ryan. So if you don’t think we should talk more than once a week, it’s your call.” He rubs the bridge of his nose, thinking hard. After a moment, he adds, “And if you think we should talk more often, that can also be arranged.” 

I frown. Shouldn’t I be saying this kind of thing to him? Somehow this whole thing seems backwards. 

Jim smiles bitterly to himself and then starts talking. I feel obligated to listen. “The truth is, Ryan, before you came along as a patient, I was beginning to despair. I was all but convinced everyone I treated would just be another bundle of self-hatred. Given, the problems each person deals with are different, but self-hatred seems to lie at the root of everyone’s mental health dilemma.” 

Something inside me tells me I should interrupt him, should allow this man to keep his dignity and pride in helping people in tact, but my curiosity wins out over my desire to be kind. 

“I was certain when I met you that you were just going to be another melodramatic teenager blaming yourself for all the ills that had befallen you. And that, like so many, you’d have no desire to do anything to help yourself.” 

My heart aches for this man, this poor old man who has never wanted to do anything but help and who feels like a failure. “I’m not like other people,” I say. Then kick myself mentally. I’m in a psychiatric hospital! Saying  _ that _ is probably the  _ last _ thing I should’ve done.  _ Good job, Ryan, _ I tell myself,  _ just glue a sign that says CRAZY to your forehead while you’re at it.  _

Expecting the worse, I am genuinely surprised when Dr. Mint begins to shake with silent laughter that soon blossoms into full-fledged laughter. Unable to help myself, I laugh too—but in relief, more than humor. I’m just glad he didn’t read more into that comment. “I’m beginning to see that,” Dr. Mint says and I feel like kicking myself again. Maybe he read more into that then I thought.

“I’m okay with one or two sessions a week,” I say, thinking. And changing the subject. I don’t want him to deal on it. “And don’t I get to have visitors?” 

“Of course. You’ll have group therapy tomorrow and I believe your parents and friends said they’d come by during the allotted visitor hours the day after.” 

I sigh in relief. I’m ecstatic my parents will be here—wait. “Group therapy?” 

Jim frowns at me as if he’s sure I should know this. “Of course. All recovery facilities require group therapy from all their inhabitants.” 

It irritates me that he doesn’t just call it a psychiatric hospital. “Dr. Mint, I won’t be offended by the phrase mental institution or crazyhouse. Please, however, do not insult my intelligence by calling it a recovery facility.” My hands at some point clenched into fists and I’m on my feet, taking deep breaths in an effort to remain calm. 

“Crazyhouse it is, then,” Jim says, diffusing my anger and I could cry I’m so relieved, but I laugh instead. Punching a doctor is probably a bad idea, but there are some things I can’t abide—and skirting around the truth is one of those things. I’m just glad he understands that. I’m also glad I didn’t have to hit him. I don’t think that would have boded well for either one of us. 

We talk a little longer and I come to understand I shouldn’t expect to notice any effect from my medicine for at least a week. Something about it establishing itself in my system…I don’t try to follow the technical explanation. I just know that if I am going to have to figure out the runes in a week. After all, I can’t use them if I can’t see them. 

Perhaps viewing the runes as magic I can use and also viewing them as insane visions to be rid of should be difficult, but my brain seems convinced that the runes are both. 

Whatever. Thinking on it too much will make me go cross-eyed or something. I’ve always heard trying to hold two contradictory beliefs in your head is dangerous, so dwelling on my ability to do so seems even more destabilizing. 

When I enter my room, Jeremy is setting down my tray. Suppertime. I grimace at the thought of more hospital food. It doesn’t deserve to be called food. 

Jeremy makes his way towards the door and I move aside for him to pass. Almost subconsciously, my hand falls on his shoulder and he stops short to look at me. 

“Thanks, Jeremy,” I say and remove my hand. 

His eyes widen in shock at hearing his name and he appraises me coldly, and then nods once to himself in a sharp, jerky motion. “Call me Jer,” he says and disappears. 

I sit on the edge of my bed and in complete disbelief. First my psychiatrist is apparently seeking some sort of salvation through my existence and now the man I’m pretty sure everyone avoids out of instinct as good as considers me a friend. 

I put my head in my hands and groan. With my world being turned upside down by the people in it, who needs to see runes to go crazy? 


	9. Chapter Eight

I walk into the room my group therapy session is being held feeling incredibly uncomfortable. I’d rather be anywhere else but here, surrounded by crazy people. Maybe it’s a bit conceited, since I’m in an institution myself, but I can’t help but be disgusted by the people around me. 

The room itself isn’t badly decorated, and it’s nothing like the group therapy rooms portrayed in movies. There are no flimsy cafeteria chairs arranged in a circle. Rather, there are three couches aligned against the far wall with a single rocking chair facing them. It’s more like lining up with the other patients than it is forming a circle so that everything feels included. I don’t know what kind of atmosphere they’re trying to create here, but I’m sure I don’t like it much. 

Taking a seat on the end of the couch nearest the far wall, I curl up and wait for the session to start. There are only a couple people already here, which suits me just fine. I have no interest in making friends while I’m here—my only interest is learning how the runes work so that I can get out of here. I don’t plan to stay in such a prison for the rest of my life. Sure, I could pretend to be cured, say that the medicine Dr. Mint prescribed me is working wonders, but I don’t want to lie my way out of here. 

Perhaps breaking out isn’t much better, but at least it’s honest. Three more people trickle in and take seats on the opposite end of the room from me, and I breathe a sigh of relief. So far, it looks like no one is interested in striking up a conversation with me. Truth be told, I have no idea what I’d say if someone did. 

A woman I haven’t seen before enters the room and takes a seat in the rocking chair. Her red hair falls to her shoulders and shapes her face rather nicely and her green eyes are piercing and sharp. She looks over the group and nods in satisfaction. “Everyone’s here. Let’s get started.” 

Startled by that pronouncement, I look around the room. There are only seven people present, including myself. I expected many more. I mean, it’s a crazyhouse right? Shouldn’t there be more people here considering how crazy our world is? 

I guess it doesn’t really matter though—the fewer people there are, the less time I’m going to have to spend trying to get through this ridiculous session of group therapy. Like hanging out with people I don’t know is going to be any kind of therapy. 

Glancing around the room, I’m not surprised I don’t recognize anyone. But then my gaze stumbles across Jeremy and I stifle my shock. Sure, something felt off about the guy, but I never would’ve guessed that he was a patient here. I thought he was just a staff member, responsible for bringing patients meals. Apparently there’s more to him than that. 

For the first time since this whole farce started, I feel an inkling of curiosity. What does it mean that Jeremy is present? Why is he here? How is he crazy? He seems perfectly normal to me, aside from the fact he seems a little less than human. Maybe he is. I mean, if magic can exist, maybe other creatures can exist to. 

Amused, I shake my head to clear it. There are no such things. This whole magic thing seems to have affected me more negatively than I thought. I am and always will be a skeptic when it comes to anything supernatural. Even admitting to myself that my rune magic is a type of magic is difficult, but to hold the idea in my mind that other creatures, beings other than humans might exist is ludicrous. If there were, I’m sure I would’ve seen one by now.

Speaking of my magic, what is up with the way those two runes yesterday melted into the wall? I haven’t had much time to really think on it, but it seems pretty significant. 

When I draw a rune on paper, all I get out of the sketch is a deep understanding of the underlying meaning to that rune. It doesn’t merge with the runes that comprise the paper and it remains solid and visible. Perhaps the medium I’m using to draw them makes a difference. Maybe it’s not the surface that matters, but the utensil. 

Considering this makes me that much more eager to get out of this ridiculous group therapy session. There is no reason for me to be wasting my time here when the mechanics of my magic are calling me. I want to know how to use the runes and I want to know now. 

I sigh and shift in my seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. I can hate this as much as want—hell, I can probably skip out on it if I absolutely want to, but somehow that seems like a bad idea. I don’t want to make a bad impression on Dr. Mint because I have no desire to spend more than one or two days a week in that man’s company. 

That in mind, I do my best to turn my attention to the woman who sat in the rocking chair. She’s still going over her clipboard, looking at notes. If there was any way I could make this session go faster, I’d do it in a heartbeat. 

She clears her throat after what seems like an eternity and says, “All right. I’m Doctor Shimm. It seems like we have a couple of new faces today, so I’d like everyone to go around and tell us your name and the reason you are here.” 

It feels like a trick question. Hell, it  _ has _ to be a trick question, but this woman has such a nice face it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that a lot of patients fall for it. I’m not going to be one of them, though. I refuse to be manipulated, especially when such manipulation could lead to a longer stint here than I desire.

“Let’s start with you, Paul,” she says, her eyes shifting to focus on the boy at the other end of the room. Relief courses through me. If she’d chosen me to go first, there’s a distinct possibility I simply would have fled. I need time to come up with a reason that is essentially the truth but not the whole truth—I don’t want anyone in this room knowing that I have magic. 

Since I have nothing better to do and I’m stuck here anyway, I might as well pay attention to the people around me. Maybe I’ll learn something that will help me understand the conglomeration of runes that comprises each person. 

I crane my neck around to get a better look at Paul, who is currently having trouble meeting Dr. Shimm’s eyes. His gaze flickers down and up in rapid succession, and he looks pretty much anywhere except her face. 

“I’m Paul,” he says and his voice comes out in little less than a stifled murmur. It hurts how much I have to strain in order to hear him. “I’m here because I tried to kill myself.” His voice has dropped even further but I don’t blame him. Admitting that much to a group of relative strangers has to be hard for him. 

At the same time, though, I can’t help feel a flicker of disgust. I get that life gets hard, sometimes, but there has never been a single moment that I’ve wished I wasn’t here or thought that the world would be better off without me. Suicide is a coward’s choice. There is nothing so bad in this world that ending your life is ever the answer and I do not and will not ever believe there to be any exceptions to that. 

The introduction moves on to the next person, a slender girl curled almost up into the couch. She unfurls a little, but still seems to take up absolutely no space. I’m a bit curious how she manages to make herself seem even smaller than she is, when she’s so tiny she’s probably malnourished. 

“I’m Amy,” she says and hesitates a little. She glances at Paul and takes a deep breath, drawing courage from his open declaration of self-hatred. “I’m here because I’m anorexic. My parents only discovered this when it got so bad I had to be hospitalized.” 

“My name is Sammy,” says the next person. He is stocky and muscular, probably due to football or some other sport. “I’m here because I’m schizophrenic.” Straight, matter-of-fact and I can’t help but find myself respecting him a bit for that. At least he doesn’t seem to be full of the same self-hatred the last two possess. 

“My name is Tammy. I’m here because I’m addicted to sex.” 

I have to blink a little as a process this. I’ve never heard of anyone being addicted to sex before. It seems a little odd to be an addiction and I’m having trouble reconciling it in my head with what I know of addiction. Plus, there’s the fact that she’s very sexually appealing. Tammy’s almost more attractive than Cassie—almost. But there’s a world of trouble there just waiting for me and I don’t want to get involved in it. I’m not here to make friends or have affairs and I’d never cheat on Cassie, even if the girl in question looks like sex on legs. 

“I’m Tina. I’m here because my parents think it’s wrong that I feel I was born the wrong gender. They think I’m crazy, but I’m not.” 

I nearly crack up on the spot—not because what she’s saying is funny, but because she is saying it with a stubborn pout, like she’s daring anyone to correct her. Normally, such an expression wouldn’t be funny, but she’s smaller than the anorexic girl and on her, the pout looks the same as it would from a little kid refusing to share ice cream. 

“I’m Jeremy,” he says and the way those two words fall out of his mouth like a low guttural growl makes my hair stand on end. He is dangerous, I wasn’t mistaken. “I’m here because it’s the safest place for me.” He doesn’t elaborate and I find myself breathing a sigh of relief. I’m not sure I  _ want  _ to know why he finds this place safe. Nor am I sure if the place is the safest for  _ him _ or the place in which others will be safest  _ from _ him. 

It’s my turn to speak, so I don’t have time to really consider it. “My name is Ryan. I’m here because I became too obsessed with an art project.” That’s as far as I’m willing to go in this weird group of people. I don’t need the two self-hating kids, the sex addict, the schizophrenic, or the sex-change waiting to happen knowing anymore about me than they have to. 

After the introductions, each person is given an opportunity to speak about the incident that brought them here and how they think it could have been prevented. It sickens me, a bit, to see how focused on the past these doctors are. I mean, sure, each person’s past led up to what placed them here, but it’s in the past. The problems they’re facing  _ now _ are what should be considered, not the problems in the past. 

In any case, I’m much more interested in runes that melt into walls and the weird way in which Jeremy sort of growled his introduction. It makes me wonder just how much lies under the surface, as well as how I’m ever going to dig it all out into the open. 


	10. Chapter Nine

The therapy session ends after what seems like an entirety and I enter my room with a heartfelt sigh of relief. Being forced to be around strangers, people who will never understand what I’m dealing with, is stressful and I am glad to be away from them. 

And it’s not that I’m going through anything worse than what some of them are dealing with—hell, in quite a few cases their lives are much more screwed up than mine. But I also refuse to be defeated by the circumstances of my own life—it’s  _ my _ life. Just because a few unexpected events cropped up doesn’t mean I’m going to moan and groan about it. Shit happens. You either deal with it or you let it drag you down. And like I said before, I make opportunities with what I’m given. If the cards I’m dealt are the worst ones in the deck, I’ll still play the game with joy in my heart because it’s the game itself that’s fun, not winning or losing. It’d be nice to think other people thought of life the same way. 

But here, it’s pretty obvious that the outlook lies on the opposite side of the spectrum. Most of the patients here are ticking time bombs, slowly counting down to their own self-destruction. Each is going about it in a different way—one girl through anorexia, another through suicidal tendencies—but they’re both slowly self-destructing. There’s no hiding that. 

And watching them earlier was making me kind of sick, so it’s no surprise to me that just being out of the room they were in is making me feel a hundredfold better. I felt stifled and suppressed. Here I feel relaxed and free. 

I stretch, wincing a little as my neck and back muscles pop. It feels good but it also hurts a little. Now that I’m back in my room, I can finally focus on figuring out what was going on with those two runes I traced against the wall before. 

Taking a seat on the edge of my bed, I think for a long moment, trying to determine which rune will be the safest to trace. I don’t want to cause something bad to happen, which is entirely possible considering how little I still know about my magic, so I don’t want to choose the wrong rune. 

Considering, I find myself stumped on three. There’s joy, which is fairly safe, but if it’s drawn too strongly somehow it could cause euphoria. Normally, I’d be all for euphoria, but with the patients here I’m hesitant to consider it. Yes, such a high would be nice for them, but how bad would the fallout be when the crash happened? And I’m sure it would happen since this is just the beginning of my own real research into the magic. I don’t know how to make any rune effect permanent. Nor am I sure I should ever want to—that thought brings me to the idea that there are ethics in magic even as there are in regular mundane tasks. There is nothing in me desiring violating these ethics, even if I don’t understand them. All I can do is abide by the ones I already possess and hope they coincide with whatever ethics binds magic users. 

The second rune I am considering seems safer than the first. The Peace rune doesn’t seem like it could do much harm, and in fact may improve relations between the staff and the patients here. The third rune, the Day Rune, is rather mundane and I’m unsure if I’ll really get an idea of how the rune magic works if I use it for this experiment. 

My mind made up, I turn to the wall behind me and carefully sketch the rune for peace against the surface. It immediately fades into the wall, becoming a part of the other runes already abiding there. Moving my head so that my eyes are about an inch away from the wall, I use the runic sight my magic’s given me, trying to see how the peace rune merges with the other ones. 

The rune shimmers for a second and then slides effortlessly into place. There is no sound, but there is a small implosion of light as it takes up residence with the other runes. None of the runes that are already there are removed. Instead, they have all moved to accommodate the inclusion of this new rune. The pattern is a new one and for a second I swear the wall wavers, shimmers, and re-solidifies. The rune pattern comprising the wall is different than it was before I added the peace rune. The entire wall’s runic structure seems to have changed, but it looks exactly the same to my normal sight as it always has. 

Maybe I need to walk around the hall a couple times and come back into this room to see if it’s made any impact at all. It’s a bit difficult to tell from here since nothing really feels different. Nothing seems at all out of place, which is rather discouraging. So really, the walk around the hall is to cheer myself up, rather than to test anything out. 

Still, I can have hope. Maybe I will see something different after I walk. Fresh air is said to help you think more clearly, so perhaps that’s all I need. And even if there is no change to the room due to my runic experimentation, maybe I’ll think of something else to try during my stroll. 

Right when I am ready to walk out into the hallway, Jeremy steps inside my room and closes the door gently behind him. There is no tray of food in his hand, so I’m feeling rather out of my depth and a little afraid. Sure, the guy said earlier that I should call him Jer, which I assumed meant he considered me a friend, but I don’t really know him. So this could be a nightmare just waiting to happen. 

“I came to warn you,” he says, his voice low and guttural, the way it was when he spoke during the group therapy session. It seems to be his natural tone, rather than something he adopted to keep people at bay. I guess he doesn’t really need something to keep people away though, because they tend to just naturally shy away from him anyway. 

“Warn me?” I ask, treading cautiously. All I know about this man is that he’s potentially very dangerous. He has that  _ feel _ to him. Hell, the Danger rune is the one most prominent in his runic makeup. So I know I’m not just being paranoid or over-reacting. He really  _ is _ dangerous. 

“Yes.”

“About what?” 

“Tammy.” 

“Tammy?” I’m intrigued now. What harm could possibly befall me from the sex addict? 

“The sex addict,” Jeremy says, taking my question as lack of knowledge rather than surprise. 

“She’s addicted to sex. Why does she seek to harm me?” 

Jeremy stares at me as if I’m a complete idiot. Perhaps I am. I never claimed to understand anything about girls. “She doesn’t.” 

Completely out of my depth here, I ask, “So what exactly are you warning me about?” 

“She’s going to try and have sex with you.”

“Oh.” Somehow I manage not to laugh at the serious way in which Jeremy imparts his message. He makes sex seem dire, somehow, and it’s hard not to laugh at that. “Thanks,” I say, hoping desperately he will leave so I can stop holding back my laughter. 

“Just be careful,” he says, and disappears from the room. 

I sag on my bed and shake with silent laughter. Tammy, the sex addict, wants to jump me. And Jeremy’s attitude towards it makes it seem like the world will end if that ever happens! I laugh for a bit until his words really catch up with me. 

And when they do catch up to me, they knock the wind right out of me. The world won’t end if Tammy tries to jump me, but if I’m not careful, my relationship with Cassie might. And that really  _ would _ be the end of the world.  _ Huh, _ I think,  _ maybe Jeremy had the right of it after all _ . 

I don’t have any interest in Tammy. Yeah, sure, she’s attractive. Like I said, sex on legs. But she’s also addicted to sex. I’m not saying sex is bad, because that would make me a liar and a hypocrite. But I look for quite a bit more from a relationship than just sex. Personality, a sense of humor, an emotional compatibility—those are all just as important. All of it is sort of rolled together into one package. And the best package out there for me is Cassie. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted or ever needed in a girl. There’s no room for anyone else—no one else can match up to her. 

While she will understand if Tammy jumps me that it’s because of her addiction to sex, she won’t understand if I am unable to control myself and can’t stop. And that’s what I’m afraid of. My self-control. I  _ am _ a teenager, after all, and my hormones are all over the place. A hot girl is a hot girl—at least to certain parts of my anatomy—and in the heat of the moment, there’s no guarantee my anatomy won’t overrule my reason. And I don’t want that to happen. Ever. 

Maybe I should consider asking Jeremy to act as my bodyguard. He could easily play the part. After a moment of intense consideration, I decide against it. He’s got enough to deal with already, with all the kitchen duties and god knows what else he has to do as an active part of the staff. A friend shouldn’t add to his burdens, and he obviously considers me a friend, considering the warning he gave me about Tammy. I’m just going to have to hope that she doesn’t choose to throw herself at me when I’m really missing Cassie or there’s no telling what might happen. 

Speaking of Cassie, my first family visit is tomorrow. And my parents will surely bring her to see me. Probably Joe as well, if I know them at all. I smile to myself, feeling content for the first time all day. Just knowing that it is a matter of time until I see her makes everything that’s happened today bearable. She’s what makes life beautiful. 


End file.
